


Filibusters

by betagyre



Series: Bad Influence [2]
Category: Frozen (2013), Tangled (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Christmas, Domestic, Drama, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Light Dom/sub, Lobbyists, M/M, Office Sex, Sexual Content, Slice of Life, Social Commentary, Substance Abuse, Vacation, Weather, Writers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-04-22 23:00:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 76,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4853885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betagyre/pseuds/betagyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Extra talk that comes out of DC. Also the complete bonus scenes for Bad Influence. Includes a few scenes set during the story, everything from after it, and a few AU-of-AUs.  Minor multi-crossover characters in some pieces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Walking In

**Author's Note:**

> **General Fic Notes:** Here begin the promised bonus scenes for Bad Influence. A few things.
> 
> First, you'll notice that this is multi-fandom, whereas Bad Influence was not, even though it contained minor characters AU'd from other fandoms. This is because Elsa is fairly significant as an individual in later pieces (Facilier was significant in Bad Influence, but it didn't HAVE to be him to fill the role of "the smart villain"). In fact, there's one chapter that is about modern!Elsa in DC rather than Flynn/Rapunzel. Also, the list of tags includes tags that won't be applicable until later chapters/scenes go up.
> 
> Second, please note the tag "Social Commentary" on this fic. It's there for a reason. A few of the pieces very clearly reflect my POV on political situations in my country (the US) that disgust me, and there is much more of this than Bad Influence itself has. I'll identify the chapters in the notes when they are posted. The general position I'm coming from on those matters is anti-populist centrist-liberal (not "progressive"). Third way, essentially, as my profile says. Maybe it's not "fair" to other POVs, but it's my story, and I'm not obligated to "represent all views fairly."
> 
> Finally, I don't post trigger warnings for anything except sexual abuse or really graphic violence, and this fic doesn't contain either. Those things tend to bother almost everyone, whereas most other things will just "trigger" those who have experienced them (or think they have). And in the meantime, if a warning is posted identifying what the "trigger" is, that just spoiled everyone else. There are a couple of chapters that might bother some people. I'll identify them in their chapter notes, but I will not spoil what is in them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter Notes:** This is Flynn's perspective of his first (remembered) meeting with Rapunzel. It is set during Chapter 2 (or Chapter 1, if you don't count the prologue).

Flynn Rider’s dark eyes surveyed the club as the eyes of an epicurist might survey a food-laden table in a banquet hall.

 _A table laid out with fast food, though,_ he thought sourly as his gaze passed over the clientele with disappointment. A little voice in the back of his head told him that he shouldn’t judge people by appearances, but on the other hand, that saying was referring to prejudging unattractive people as being boring, stupid, mean—unfit companions, in other words—just because of their looks. Unfortunately, Flynn thought in his cynical superiority, there was probably a great deal of wisdom in prejudging a roomful of “young urban professionals” preening pretentiously at each other like a bunch of peacocks in mating plumage. All fake, all artificial. He was judging based on their _behavior._

He didn’t even really know why he was here again, except that it was a singles club, he was _far_ more of a yuppie than a hipster or any other group with a cute label, and people did come there to meet others. _“Meet” others indeed,_ he thought wryly as his gaze lingered on a tall girl with kind of nondescript brown-blonde hair (though it was hard to be sure in the ever-changing lighting) but a perfect hourglass figure, which was wrapped in a strapless ice blue sheath that was right on the verge of being indecently short and _was_ at least a size too tight. _Probably Georgetown,_ he thought. This wasn’t a formal club, and most of the girls here were wearing tight designer jeans or miniskirts. But he knew the DC metro area well, he knew the quirks and eccentricities of most of its major neighborhoods, and he knew that stylish young Georgetown residents tended to dress this way even for shopping.

The girl noticed that he was staring at her, and with a smirk, she looked back at him. That was enough encouragement. He began to stride over to where she lingered… and then the expression on her face changed.

“Sorry, but I’m booked tonight,” she said pointedly as he approached. At that, he noticed the smug-looking young man, dressed in a sport jacket, who was returning with two drinks. “Same tomorrow. But if you’re interested in my rates—”

Flynn understood, and he saw his error at once. She wasn’t a rich Georgetown twenty-something. She was a paid companion. Her client was drawing nearer, and Flynn noticed that he had—of all things—an American flag pin on the lapel of his jacket. _Typical,_ he thought in disgust. _I wonder where he works? Congressional staffer or think tank brat? Either way, God bless America,_ he thought nastily.

“No,” he said rudely and turned around at once, not even bothering to see whether he had offended the girl. He didn’t particularly care if he had. _That_ wasn’t why he was here—and he wondered why a guy would hire an escort and then bring her to a singles club. Perhaps it was to spite an ex-girlfriend, or perhaps he just wanted to show her off. –In fact, once that idea had occurred to Flynn, he realized that was probably exactly what it was. Some people did not care if somebody appeared to be taken and even regarded it as making their object _more_ desirable. Perhaps this guy knew it and figured that _hiring_ a hot girl for a night or two was his best route to finding someone who would be his arm candy for no pay.

Whatever. It wasn’t his problem. If he had wanted to go _that_ route, he knew some phone numbers. But he was sick of that; he’d gotten sick of that months ago, and he was here to actually meet someone.

He walked in the opposite direction, toward the bar, thinking about his overall disgust with the singles scene in DC. The last time he had met someone who interested him enough that he wanted to take her on a real date, he’d been horribly disappointed with how shallow she was. It turned out that she was almost as good a pretender as he could be, but when the façade did fall away, it crumbled to dust. She had recognized his name and was after his money.

 _I’m going to die a bachelor if I stay in this town,_ Flynn thought in frustration as he scanned the bar, looking for he knew not what. He really _didn’t_ know what sort of person he was interested in, just that the people he had already tried to date had been completely wrong. He could pinpoint what was wrong with them, because it was often quite easy to do (such as with the gold-digger), but somehow he knew that a mere absence of those traits that had revolted him would not be sufficient. He wanted more, but he didn’t know exactly what. He didn’t like thinking in platitudes; his superior cynicism told him that “knowing it when he saw it” was ridiculous, but he couldn’t help but do it anyway. If he was going to judge the bar’s patrons based on their yuppyish behavior, it would only be logical to pick someone to talk to based on—

His sweeping gaze was suddenly drawn to one person in particular who was sitting at the bar, wincing at the drink before her. It was cheap beer, he noticed—something that ordinarily would be a warning sign to him, but at the moment, he felt was insignificant. She seemed to be by herself. She was pretty enough, with short brown hair, but she was such a small person that it was almost possible to completely pass her over, especially since she appeared to be lost in her own thoughts. That, however, he thought immediately, was definitely a good sign, though he couldn’t—or perhaps _wouldn’t—_ explain to himself exactly _why_ he found thoughtfulness so appealing.

The decision was made, though. He began to zero in on this young woman, a smile forming involuntarily on his face. She glanced up and noticed his approach. A slight frown crossed her face, and he felt conscious at once. Why had she frowned? He hoped he looked all right.

But no, as he drew nearer, the fleeting frown disappeared, and something like a smile formed on her face in its place.


	2. After the Fight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place from Flynn's point of view after chapter 9, when they fight. It isn't in the main story because I thought it would take away from the harsh ending of that chapter for Rapunzel.
> 
> There's a bit of politics in here.

Flynn stared angrily out at the mantelpiece, gripping the empty wine bottle so tightly that his hand hurt.

“Damn it,” he said to the empty room. He glared at the bottle in his hand. There was no more wine in the house. This bottle, half full when he arrived back ( _more like half empty,_ he thought sourly), was the last bit of wine he had in the place. He wanted more. Anything to drown out what had just happened, and this was _clearly_ not enough. Maybe Rapunzel was on to something with her ideas about drinking….

Oh, what difference did it make what Rapunzel thought? Why did he even concern himself with what she thought now? She’d made it clear that she regarded her abusive mother as the real victim. She would choose to smack him in the face and order him out rather than confront her fears of relationships.

_I don’t care what she thinks,_ he told himself, feeling a kind of angry satisfaction at the idea. _She’s got problems and I don’t care what somebody like that thinks._ He smiled grimly to himself at the depersonalization of thinking of her as “somebody like that,” defining her by what was wrong with her.

_That’s right,_ he told himself. _I don’t care. I don’t need anyone, least of all her._ He ignored the nagging thought that, earlier in the evening, he had needed her so much that he became visibly upset, almost losing the ability to speak, when she rejected him. He ignored the fact that, for the past month, he had been consumed with dreams, plans, and, yes, fantasies concerning her, all of which indicated the _need_ that he felt.

“I don’t need her,” he muttered aloud defiantly, as if speaking it would make it true. “I don’t and I’ll damn well prove I don’t. It’s just been too long, that’s all.” Grasping at this idea like a lifeline, Flynn suddenly thought of something. He took his cell phone out of his pocket and stared at it.

After cutting his ties with the Crown Group, he’d taken his favorite escort service out of his phone’s contact list, and after months of being away from the political scene, he had let the number fall out of the phone’s call history too. But he knew the number. Oh yes, he knew that number. The question was, should he make the call? It wasn’t _that_ late at night… it was just possible that the owner of the service—the _madam,_ he corrected himself in thought—could send out a girl on such short notice. That might be _just_ the thing he needed. Smiling darkly, he made the call.

“It’s been a while since we’ve had your business,” the lady remarked after he had identified himself.

“Yeah, well, I’ve been out of the loop,” he said. “So… are any of the girls free tonight?”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. “They’re booked,” the madam said. “I’m sorry. There was a ‘values’ conference tonight with a number of politicians from out of town.”

At this, a mean-spirited guffaw burst from Flynn’s mouth. He resented the takeover of his political party by those people, and it was always enjoyable to hear such scandalous things about them. The woman chuckled too before continuing. “Anyway, it ended today, but none of the girls are free until tomorrow. Would you—”

She didn’t get the chance to finish her question. As soon as she had said that no one was available tonight, he began to have second thoughts about this. With a full day to think things over, he was suddenly positive that he would not want to go through with this tomorrow night—and, in that case, he grudgingly had to admit that he shouldn’t do it tonight either.

“No, forget it,” he interrupted. “Just… never mind, just forget it.” He mashed a finger against the screen to end the call and flung himself against the back of the couch. His head was spinning from the drink and from the realization of what he had tried to do.

He didn’t want sex-for-hire. That wouldn’t solve anything. What he wanted—well, _whom_ he wanted—was the young woman back in Silver Spring, not an anonymous substitute. He couldn’t lie to himself. He _did_ want and need her, and sleeping with some other woman—especially, perhaps, a woman who did it for money, and who at this very moment was with some hypocritical politician from out of town—wouldn’t fill the void. He wanted one person… but it hurt to think of it. It hurt so much, because he had blown it with her.

In his drunken state, he was sure he had pinpointed exactly where he had made his mistake. _I shouldn’t have picked up that photograph,_ he thought. That, he decided, was when things went wrong. _I should have just gone over there and taken her face in my hands and given her a good long kiss._ The thought seemed to make his blood flow faster. _She would have let me. She did at the campsite._ He smirked arrogantly, thinking of the camping trip and how she had seemed to melt at his touch.

_But she was pretty riled up tonight,_ another part of him seemed to object. However, that thought did not dissuade his alcohol-soaked mind from its fantasy. In fact, the thought of holding an angry Rapunzel while he ravished her mouth, dissolving away her anger, was… enticing. _Plunder her mouth until she gives in to her own lust, grope her, get her good and wet, then fuck her proper. She would’ve allowed me to._ He imagined pressing her against her mattress, kissing and touching her, arousing her, and whispering things in her ear until, in the heat, she forgot about the fight and begged him to take her. Yeah, _that’s_ what he wanted to do.

He opened his eyes, barely aware that he had closed them to think about this, and realized just how heavy his breathing was, how warm he had become, and… well, how hard he’d gotten at the thought. For some reason, that particular realization brought him back to earth. As he became fully aware of exactly what he had been thinking about, shame washed over him—shame and loss.

_God I’m a scumbag,_ he thought, leaning forward and putting his head in his hands. He felt utterly ashamed of himself for thinking about manipulating her emotions like that, and nothing diminished arousal quite like shame.

Besides, it wouldn’t even have worked. Not really. Rapunzel had already essentially admitted that she liked him _before_ he picked up her mother’s photograph. She just had fears that paralyzed her from acting on that desire. Doing this might have given them a physical thrill, but by morning…. Flynn shuddered at the thought of waking up with Rapunzel, facing her, after such a thing. By morning, the anger would have come back in force, and the fears would still be present. She would never forgive him for manipulating her like that.

The way the fight had _actually_ happened, they _might_ still have a chance even after tonight, he thought…. She _might_ change her mind if being without him, or thinking she had lost him, would prompt her to face her fears and conquer them. He certainly regretted some things that _he_ had said, now that they were apart….

_And besides, she deserves better for her first time,_ he thought more soberly.

Wait, soberly?

Flynn frowned again at the empty bottle. This was a problem that had to be remedied as soon as possible. He set it aside and stomped over to his refrigerator to take out a bottle of beer. This was going to be a long night, and he needed assistance to get through it.


	3. Withdrawal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This occurs between Chapters 11 and 12. I didn't put it into the story because it is long enough that I thought it distracted from what was going on, and what was going on was important.
> 
> This chapter contains references to past and present substance abuse.

Flynn had just emerged from his office, a smile spreading across his face. He had purchased two tickets to Fairbanks for the very next day. The flights were not full; he supposed that even on a holiday weekend, not many people would be going there, only those who had family or friends in the area. There were two layovers, but that was probably unavoidable for such a long trip. Flynn was feeling good. He _knew_ that once Rapunzel could go back to her childhood home and say goodbye to her mother, she would be ready to accept everything he wanted to give her. She did want it, after all. She still wanted it deep inside, since she had brought it up last night while tipsy. He had little doubt in his mind that they would become an item at _last_ soon after they returned from the trip, and the thought made him truly happy.

As he walked down the short hall and into the living room, the blue couch came into focus. She was seated on it, the top of her head and her fluffy brown hair visible from behind the sofa. And she was….

Flynn felt his heart sink as he realized that she was trembling. _What can it be now?_ he thought as he darted into the room. Had she made herself upset thinking about her mother’s death?

Her eyes were watery, but there were no tears, he realized as her face came into his view. He sat down beside her and gazed sympathetically at her, wanting to hold her and comfort her. “What’s the matter?” he asked.

Her hands were shaking. “I just feel really bad,” she said in a small voice. “I’ve felt kind of _weird_ for about an hour, really weak and trembly, but I’ve got this headache now, and my hands have started shaking—I don’t understand why—”

A horrible idea occurred to Flynn as she described her symptoms, but he wanted to consider other possibilities first. “Do you think it’s because of anxiety over this trip, or from thinking about your mother?”

“I feel _good_ about the trip,” she said. “I _want_ to go. This feels like I’m just _sick,_ rather than making _myself_ feel bad.”

There it was. Anxiety may have worsened it, but Flynn now had little doubt about what had set this off. “Rapunzel, how many drinks a day did you say you were used to having?” he asked uneasily.

“At least three shots at night… but I had more at the club last night.”

“And this was every night for… how long?”

“Not every night,” she said. “I didn’t have any during exams, and for the past nine days I’ve been living with Max and Pascal… they haven’t let me have any at night, so I’ve been sneaking it during the day when they were at work, just two or two and a half—”

Flynn sighed. “Rapunzel, this is withdrawal sickness.”

The tears that had been threatening to fall from her eyes finally did. “I’m so weak,” she moped. “I’m weak, and I’m a burden on you—”

“You are not,” he said at once. “I’m _glad_ that you’re here. And you’re not weak either. You’re stronger than that chemical….” He trailed off, unsure of what to say. He had rarely had much difficulty coming up with the right words; it was a critical part of his former profession, and he had long known he had a gift for it, but this was different from anything he had ever had to do. “You haven’t been drinking for _that_ long and it hasn’t been _that_ heavy, so this shouldn’t last too long. You aren’t seeing things, are you? Or hearing them? Things that aren’t real?”

She shook her head limply.

“It’ll pass, Rapunzel,” he said. “It’ll pass because you are stronger than it.” He reached out and put his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. He didn’t worry about what she might think of it; he just had to hold her. She let out a sob of gratitude, allowing him. That brought a tiny smile to his face. And as he hugged her, Flynn’s thoughts suddenly flashed back to another time and place….

* * *

He had just awakened in a strange room. Nothing looked familiar, and panic began to set in, sending his pulse into a rapid palpitation that somehow seemed vaguely familiar and yet intensified the panic even more. Where was he, and how did he get here? And how come he didn’t remember these things?

He gazed around as it slowly came into focus. He was in a bed, at any rate. The pillows were very fluffy, even annoyingly so. His head was sunk into one of them. The next thing he noticed was that the pillow was damp with sweat… as were the sheets, as he realized.

Bits and pieces came back. This was a hotel room in Manhattan, he recalled, and he was here because the Stabbingtons’ firm had thrown a party in their firm banquet/conference room for themselves and their lobbyists. And— _oh._ Flynn suddenly remembered what had happened.

_What the bloody hell was in that coke?_ he thought, anger now taking over his mind. He remembered now. The cocaine acquired by the partners had had something wrong with it. Or at least, he assumed it did. The insanely fast palpitations, sweating, and general sense of panic that he now recalled feeling last night—all of those things _might_ be attributable to a bad reaction to the drug itself, or the drug mixed with alcohol, he supposed, but it had never happened before. After refusing to let them call an ambulance and being sent in a firm limo back to his hotel room, he must have come inside and simply passed out. He was still wearing the clothes from last night, he noticed, even the belt, which now dug painfully into his waistline. Yes, he must have simply come in and collapsed on the bed. He wondered how on earth he had managed to find the correct room.

He blinked again, noticing for the first time the blonde woman who sat stiffly in the armchair across from the bed, arms crossed, glaring at him with a thin-lipped scowl. He was sure he had not seen her before. He had _no_ memory of being accompanied to his room.

“Who the fuck are you?” he snarled rudely, still feeling angry about the whole situation—though whether it was anger at the stockbrokers for having the stuff or at himself for doing it, he could not say—and not liking the look she was giving him. What right had _she_ to look pissed off at _him?_ This was his hotel room.

She looked extremely affronted at this question. “I’m Vera,” she said.

She was dressed scantily, wearing some kind of black pleather miniskirt and a glittery gold cami top that seemed almost to blend in with her hair. He supposed that she might be somewhat pretty, but at the moment, he didn’t care. “Okay, Vera. How did you get into my room?” he snapped.

“I was sent here by the senior partners, the black guy and one of those redheads, to ‘take care of you’ because of the state you were in. I rode in that same limo with you, but I suppose you were too out of it to notice. You rushed in here and crawled on that bed sobbing about how you were going to die.”

“Yeah sorry,” he drawled sarcastically as he sat up in bed. His head was pounding, and he could not believe he was being lectured by a prostitute. “Sorry for not paying attention to your tits, because I really did think I might be dying. You were at the party, you say. Did you do any of that coke? There was something wrong with it.”

“No one else had the problem you did.”

Flynn chose to ignore this observation for the time being. “As you can see, though, I obviously didn’t die, so your work is done. Now why don’t you get the hell out of here and go wherever you’re supposed to go?”

She huffed in anger as she stood up. “Fortunately, I have already been paid by those other men. And that’s a good thing for you, because I would have lost a night of work otherwise, and _you_ would be paying me for the trouble even though you didn’t enjoy my services.” She headed toward the door, striding past the unmade bed with contempt in her eyes. She paused and turned to him again. “I loathe working for people like you. The worst clients of all, you smug, rich Wall Street types.”

“I don’t work on Wall Street,” he corrected with a smirk. “They’ve just hired my firm. I work in DC—on _K_ Street.”

“Same difference,” she sneered. “Entitled, arrogant, obnoxious. The only good thing about it is that your kind _do_ pay well.”

He smirked again. “I understand your thinking _quite_ well, actually. It was _lovely_ meeting you, Vera, simply _lovely.”_ The sarcasm dripped from his voice.

“Likewise,” she snarled as she opened the hotel door. She stormed out, and it slammed with a loud bang.

Now that the room was empty and a target for his anger was no longer present, Flynn found that he had no choice but to turn the anger toward himself. He collapsed on the bed again, his head still throbbing in pain. He wondered if she had been telling the truth— _had_ he been the only one to react badly to the drug? Could he simply not tolerate it now? It was hardly his first time to take it, but drugs could suddenly do weird things for no apparent reason….

He sighed. How could he have let this happen? He could have been robbed blind, his identity stolen, or even worse. He actually _could_ have died of a heart attack. He knew better, he really did… there was just something about these firm parties that sent all his better judgment right out the window. Being around these people caused it, though not from insecurity—quite the opposite. He was pretty well-off now, with almost a million bucks in assets, but when he was surrounded by these people who were mostly many times wealthier than that, he felt that he was one of them. It was as if their wealth and their years of experience somehow rubbed off on him when he was there, and so he took on the cocky confidence to do what they did. He didn’t ever buy the stuff or do lines in private. It was only at these monthly firm parties.

_Not again,_ he thought. _This cannot happen again._

* * *

Back in the present day, Flynn squeezed Rapunzel with his arm still around her shoulders as a fresh sob wracked her body. “It’ll be all right,” he said as gently as he could. “It won’t last forever, Rapunzel.”

“My _head,”_ she sobbed. “It hurts so much. And my hands won’t stop shaking.”

“They will, though.” Flynn wondered what one was supposed to do for this. _Was_ there anything he could do other than wait for it to pass? He hadn’t had a hangover in ages, but this wasn’t a hangover anyway. “Rapunzel, could you sit tight while I look something up? I’m just going to go to my computer and see if I can find out if there’s any way to ease the pain.”

She nodded at him, shifting her hands to her sides, clutching her body, and pinning the shaking hands beneath her arms to try to stop the trembling. Flynn got up, giving her a very sympathetic look as he headed back to the office. He really wanted to kiss her… but he had to restrain himself.

Shortly he found what he was looking for. “The only thing I can do is feed you vitamins and get some more food into you,” he called from the office. Fortunately, he had a bottle of multivitamins somewhere… he hoped they were still in date…. He went into the bedroom, into his bathroom, and rummaged through the medicine cabinet until he found it. Yes, they were still all right to take. He got one out, broke it in half, and brought it out to Rapunzel along with a glass of water.

She took the vitamin, wincing as the large halves of the tablet went down. “Thanks,” she said in a whisper. “Thanks so much for putting up with this.”

He smiled and hugged her again. “It’s an honor,” he said.

“You must think I’m so pathetic.”

“Not even remotely,” he said. “I had a problem myself back in the day, about two years before I met you. I know how tough it can be.”

“You did?”

“Mm-hmm.” It wasn’t a lie… even though he hadn’t taken it often enough to have an addiction, the binging that he did was bad too, and then there was that morning from hell that he had just remembered.

She managed a muffled sob and then smiled weakly. “You really don’t judge me?”

“Not a bit. I just want to help you get through it and move on to better things.” And that, he thought, was true for a great deal more than just the withdrawal sickness. He gave her another squeeze. “Now how about some dinner?”

After that first remark, she looked up at him, eyes wide, seeming to understand the deeper meaning perfectly well—but the moment passed as he asked his question. “Sure,” she said, keeping one hand around his waist for support as they stood up.


	4. Sick Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a sweet bit of domestic fluff. It occurs during the events of chapter 15 or 16. It isn't in the main story because it's a slice-of-life piece that doesn't really connect to the main storylines.

Rapunzel woke up one bright sunny Saturday in early July and immediately realized that something was wrong. Her head seemed heavy and stuffy. A dull, throbbing headache simmered behind her eyes and cheekbones. Her throat also felt raw. She frowned to herself as she let her legs fall over the side of the bed. Flynn was still fast asleep on his side. She glanced at the clock and shook her head in annoyance—which made the headache worse, so she stopped at once. She didn’t quite know where the annoyance came from—nothing had happened between them—but for some reason, it really irked her for him to sleep there so calmly and peacefully at ten-thirty in the morning while her head and throat were hurting.

“Wake up!” she snapped, nudging his head roughly.

He jolted awake. “Wait what?” He blinked and gazed up at her. “What’s wrong?”

Her head was pounding now, and the feeling of stuffiness had suddenly seemed to coalesce in her nose. Breathing though her nose was difficult. She understood now—somewhere, maybe work, more likely the huge crowd at the Independence Day show, she had picked up a cold. She felt bad now for being harsh with him. Sinking down on the mattress, she put her head in her hands. A swimming feeling, as if it were once again too heavy for her body, came over her.

Flynn didn’t wait for an answer; it was clear enough to him that Rapunzel was not feeling well, and that was all he needed to know. He sat upright and leaned over her, putting an arm around her shoulders.

She pulled away. “I’ve got a cold,” she said unhappily. “You probably shouldn’t get too close.”

He gave her an ironic smile. “Sweetie, I’m pretty sure I’ve already been exposed. I mean last night, we were _rather_ close, wouldn’t you say?”

She blushed faintly but managed a smile herself. “Okay, you have a point.”

He grinned and pecked her lightly on the cheek, then got up and headed to his closet. “I’ll make some coffee—”

“No!” she objected. Ordinarily she liked coffee, but at the moment, the thought of the strongly flavored beverage—as well as a lot of other things—was dreadful. Flynn stopped and regarded her with a quirked eyebrow. She took a deep breath. “I don’t have much of a taste for it this morning,” she explained. “So don’t make any for me. Have we got any green tea?”

“I think so,” he said. “You’re mainly the one who drinks it, but last I looked, there was some. Do you want me to make you a cup of that instead?”

“Well, I can do it… but you’re sweet.” She still felt bad about waking him up the way she did, and she wanted to try to make it up to him.

“Of course I am,” he smirked.

She muffled a laugh as she got up and went to her own closet to pick out some clothes. Since it was a Saturday, and especially since she was sick, she pulled out a loose, oversized T-shirt and inexpensive elastic-waistband knit shorts. This way she would be comfortable—well, as comfortable as was possible.

They shuffled into the kitchen and began to prepare breakfast. Rapunzel did not feel like having cereal with milk. In fact, she did not feel like having much of anything. Waffles and pancakes were too sweet. Biscuits and hot oatmeal didn’t have enough of a taste to appeal to her right now—for she already felt that her sense of taste was dulled. Bagels might be all right, but cream cheese was in the same category as milk: another dairy product that she didn’t want when she felt like this. Eggs were equally unappetizing. Unhappily she opened the refrigerator door and fished around the crisper for fruit as he fixed the coffee maker for himself and heated up some water for her.

“You know,” he remarked suddenly, “there is a hot dish that I had growing up in the south. Have you ever had grits?”

She gazed up with bleary, puffy eyes. “No. Does it have a strong flavor?”

“It’s salty. Want me to make some?”

She shrugged. “Okay.”

He took out a pan and poured a small amount of water into it. He sprinkled salt over the pan and reached into the cabinet, taking down a box of what looked like really large-grained cornmeal to Rapunzel. She slumped over to the table and took her cup of hot water, putting sugar into it and a bag of green tea. When it was ready, she took a sip. The hot liquid hit her sore throat and instantly soothed it. The steam from it seemed to open up her sinus passages a bit too. She closed her eyes in relief.

“Do you want some juice?” he asked.

She thought about it. Yes, the acid of the juice would be good. “Yes,” she said.

Soon breakfast was ready. Flynn poured himself a cup of coffee and got out bowls for them, which he filled with the grits. He brought the bowls, margarine, cups of juice, and his coffee to the table and set down her cup and bowl in front of her. He put margarine on his and began to eat.

She looked at the grits. It looked kind of like mashed potatoes to her, if they were grainy—or rice, if the grains were chopped up. She had certainly seen more appetizing-looking foods. But whatever it looked like, she decided that the fact that it was giving off steam was a good thing. And it was salty…. Gingerly, yet hopefully, she picked up her spoon and tasted it. A smile broke over her face. “This is good,” she said. She took another bite.

He smiled back. “I’m glad you like it. I think it’s better with this on it”—he pushed the margarine toward her—”but you might not have a taste for it.” He wiggled an eyebrow wickedly at her. “I actually think it’s even better with bacon bits and cheese, but—”

“Ugh,” she said. She reached for the margarine.

He snickered. “Right. No meat… and I guess you don’t feel like having cheese,” he finished in a more sympathetic tone.

“Maybe some other time,” she agreed, tasting the buttered grits. “Mmm. It _is_ better.”

Rapunzel felt a bit better after breakfast was over. This boyhood dish of his had been a good idea, certainly, and the tea and fruit juice had helped with her throat. She made to clean up after herself, but he darted over.

“Don’t worry about that,” he said, taking her bowl away and putting it in the dishwasher for her. “I’ll take care of this. Why don’t you have some more tea?”

Rapunzel complied, filling her cup with green tea again and carrying it out to the living room. She slumped on the couch and set the cup down on a coaster on the side table.

Soon Flynn was finished cleaning up. He came out to the living room and sat down next to her. “I’m so sorry you feel bad,” he said, placing his arm around her shoulders. She shook slightly at his touch. He noticed at once. “Do you think you have a fever?” he asked concernedly.

“No, I don’t have a chill,” she said, taking another sip of tea. “I just don’t feel good in general.”

“Colds suck,” he remarked sympathetically.

“They do,” she agreed. She thought a moment. “I do feel kind of _cold,_ though. Not _fever_ chilled, but just normal cold, if you know what I mean.”

He placed a hand on her forehead at once. “Well, your temperature does seem normal… but I’m going to change the thermostat to 75,” he said. He got up and headed toward the wall where it was located. “I know I like it colder than you do. You’ll be more comfortable with it a little warmer.”

She smiled wryly at him. “Thanks,” she said teasingly. “I know that’s quite a sacrifice for you.”

He turned around and winked at her as he adjusted the temperature. “Well, if you still feel chilled after it warms up, I _do_ want you to check your temperature,” he said, heading back toward the blue couch. He sat down next to her and threw his arm around her again, pulling her close and curling up with her. “I don’t have anything I have to do today—except take care of this girl I love,” he said, reaching over and giving her a kiss on the forehead, “so we can just watch movies or whatever you want.”

“Maybe in a bit, yeah,” she murmured as she snuggled into him happily. She didn’t like being sick, but if she _had_ to be, she knew she couldn’t be in better hands than his.


	5. Confidence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the extended scene of Bad Influence chapter 20, when she grabs his tie.

He was always the one who was there for her.

From the moment that she had her first bad flashback, to the revelations about her unhappy childhood, to the night that she had gotten herself locked out of her friends’ apartment and had to call him to come and get her, Flynn had been there for her when she needed him—and had admitted to herself that she did. There had been that terrible month, after they had fought, when she had needed him (and he had needed her) but had not wanted to talk to him, but that was easily the most difficult time in his adult life. He had wanted to be there for her, but he knew that she did not want to accept him yet. It was hard.

Afterward, he had been the protector, the comforter, and he had liked that. There were few things, he had thought, that were nicer than knowing that you were there for the woman you loved.

But as Rapunzel towered over him, fumblingly tying his hands to the bedpost with _his own silk tie,_ he wondered if seeing that woman so confident in herself might actually be one thing that _was_ nicer.

He couldn’t believe it. Every single time they had done this, even the times when she had instigated it, he had ultimately been the one to take charge in the act itself. She had not been confident enough in herself. Once she had confessed to him that she was afraid he would be disappointed in her abilities, especially since it worked so well for both of them for him to set the pace. He tried to reassure her, but she hadn’t believed him, he could tell. It was unfortunate. The thought of letting Rapunzel take the lead had always sent shivers of pleasurable anticipation up and down his body ever since he let the idea pass through his mind. His writer’s imagination had not exactly been his friend in this (or maybe it _had,_ he thought), as he’d had quite a few fantasies about Rapunzel binding him and stripping off his clothes with her own soft bare hands. Was it finally about to happen for real?

He heaved a breath, trying to control himself. She had to be nervous about doing this and he wasn’t about to freak her out by giving himself over before they even got started. Leaning against the pillow and trying to relax, he peered out at the petite brunette woman straddling him on their bed. She tied the knot and slowly drew back, her bright green eyes growing wide, clearly surprised at herself.

In spite of his desperate attempts not to overreact, in spite of _everything,_ he felt his waistband tightening at the sight of her wide-eyed expression. Her gaze shifted downward from his face to his pants, and he knew then that it must be apparent to her. Of course it was—he was dressed in a suit, with the thin, well-fitted, tailored (compared to jeans or casual trousers) pants that came with suits.

Naturally, he thought. Every time he’d had this fantasy, he was wearing a suit in it. He briefly wondered why, but supposed it didn’t matter. He just didn’t want her to lose her nerve. He met her gaze and smirked at her, smiling lasciviously, waiting to see what she did.

Seconds passed. He noticed that her hands were trembling. That did it. He couldn’t let her freak out _now._ He was too turned on already. She had to finish this.

Finally he broke the silence. “So are you going to just tie me to the bed and admire me?” he asked slyly. “I mean, I wouldn’t particularly blame you, but I thought you had _other_ plans.”

That remark seemed to jolt her back to her senses. “Nope,” she said shakily. She breathed in and out deeply. “I….” She trailed off before meeting his eyes again, those dark, dilated eyes that she could drown in.

He smirked. “Yes, darling?”

She took a deep breath and stared into his eyes. “I can’t believe I did this,” she said in a tiny voice. Her eyes grew somehow even wider. “What am I thinking?” She reached for his hands to untie them.

_“No!”_ he croaked. She stopped. Her gaze shifted to meet his. He swallowed hard, trying not to think about the heat in his pants, but finding it impossible to think of anything else. “Don’t stop,” he said huskily.

She blinked. Her hands fell away from the necktie that bound his. “Really?” she said.

He nodded. “I’ve wanted this for a while.”

That seemed to change her mind. He could tell that she really wanted to please him, to prove that _she_ could do this, but she was clearly having a crisis of confidence. “But I don’t know what to do,” she said, confirming his suspicions.

He swallowed again. “Belt,” he managed to get out.

She glanced down at his waist again. With nervous, inexperienced hands, she unbuckled his belt and slid it slowly out of the belt loops. She held it in hand for a second before setting it aside. She placed her hands on his shirt collar.

“You’ve wanted this for a while?” she asked him softly.

He nodded. “Just like this. Even down to the clothes I’m wearing.”

She looked his body up and down. “A suit?” She paused, biting her lip in a way that he suddenly found so arousing that he could hardly stand it. “Oh, I get it, because it reminds you of being a lobbyist and you want me to… have my way with you,” she said softly, in an embarrassed tone. “While you’re imagining yourself as that.”

He blinked. Damn if she wasn’t spot on. That was pretty much exactly what it was about. She was good. He met her eye and smirked at her.

She managed to smirk back, understanding his meaning. “I like how you look in a suit,” she said softly. She unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt.

He took another deep breath, straining against the waistline that was still far too tight despite the removal of the belt, and peered out at her. “What would you _do_ with me if I were still at that firm?” he said lasciviously.

Another button popped open. The expression on her face suggested that she was catching on, gaining back the confidence that had briefly fled her. “Hmm, what should I do with you,” she mused. She looked at him with a grin, understanding fully what kind of thing he wanted her to say and pleased to oblige. “You got away with some _bad_ things, you know.”

A shiver of pleasure rippled over his body. That was enough for her. She trailed her hands down his shirt and found the button on his pants. A quick fumble and it was open. Another little motion, and the zipper was down. She slipped her hands inside the waistband.

She was so close, her breath hot and panting near his face. He had to have her lips on his, _now._ He leaned forward. Sensing his movements, she pulled back, just out of his reach, and knelt between his outspread legs.

“Rapunzel,” he moaned, straining against the necktie. “Please.”

She gazed up at him, smiling benevolently, and slipped his pants down. “Not yet,” she said. Keeping just out of reach of his straining, she placed her hands on his vest and unbuttoned each button slowly and deliberately. He groaned at her touch. She merely smiled back, clearly enjoying this, enjoying her newfound power, relishing the confidence she was given by his every reaction. _She_ was doing this to him. _She_ was making him feel this. It was quite different from how this usually went. She lifted her hands back to his partially unbuttoned shirt and began to unbutton the rest of it, untucking the shirttail from his open pants. Once it was open, she ran her hands down his bare chest. He could hardly stand it.

“You’re tormenting me,” he groaned.

She peered up at his desperate brown eyes. “You deserve it,” she purred.

“Why do I deserve this?” he gasped.

She smiled and slid a single finger inside the waistband of his boxers. “For what you did.”

He let out a cry. She quickly, deftly pulled down the boxers, gazing for a moment, then blinking and recovering herself. She looked up at his face once more. “You were greedy,” she said softly.

“I sure was. Am I _now?”_ he whispered. His eyes were very dark.

Her eyes darkened too. Pulling back from him and sitting down at the foot of the bed, she slipped out of her work clothes—her blouse and skirt—very deliberately, making sure that his hungry gaze was fixed upon her the whole time. Under the clothing she wore a matching set of pale green lingerie. Her dexterous hands darted behind her back. The bra fell off. His breath caught in his chest. Smirking at him, she quickly slipped out of the panties. Now entirely naked, she crawled carefully over the king-sized bed and settled herself astride him once more.

“Yes, I rather think you are,” she said, tracing his jawline with a single finger.

“You’re right,” he said in a husky voice. “I want you.”

Her breath hitched. Suddenly, impulsively, she leaned forward and met his lips with her own. He closed his eyes in bliss and strained forward, forcing her mouth open with his tongue, trying to keep her in place and take back a little bit of dominance, even though he knew that she was in control.

She pulled away, leaving him panting and wanting. She smiled at him—that falsely benevolent, infinitely wicked smile that was about to drive him wild, a smile that he could not believe she had in her. And yet, she’d had him wrapped around her finger from almost the first day, he thought, so really, it was no wonder that she could do this to him with only her smile.

She leaned over him again, staying mere centimeters away from his face as far as he could strain against his bonds. Just out of reach. It was hard for her, he could tell; she wanted the closeness too, the touch of heated skin against heated skin. But she had to know that if she gave in and closed the distance, he would soon persuade her to untie his hands, relinquish control to him, and that wasn’t the point of this, not at all.

“What do you want from me?” she whispered. She was so close to his straining form that he could feel her breath against his face.

“You know _exactly_ what I want.”

She peered up at him, still smiling, although she blushed at the words. Her breath was shaky, but she managed to get a response out. “Then talk me into it,” she said.

His face changed to one of extreme satisfaction. Yes, he could talk her into it… and talking people into things was something he was uniquely qualified to do. He grinned. “I will,” he purred. He gazed at her with a smirk on his face. “I think you want it too,” he said softly. He leaned forward as far as he was permitted and stared her in the eye. “I think… it would be mutually beneficial… for us,” he said slowly.

“Do you now.”

He licked his lips. “I do.”

A corner of her mouth turned upward. “But in this town… there would be reports that I was in bed with you. That’s how they say it—’in bed with’ so-and-so.” Her voice dropped an octave. “That’s how they report _inappropriate_ associations.”

“What’s inappropriate?” he purred. “I think you’re _very_ appropriate for somebody like me.” He wiggled his eyebrows at her.

She let out a gasp of faux outrage, clearly enjoying this game. “How dare you say that!” she said.

“The truth hurts, doesn’t it?” he said with a smirk.

She gaped at him for a moment before breaking into a smirk of her own. Then she drew back and placed a single finger on his length, stroking him oh so lightly.

He groaned. “Rapunzel… you’re torturing me.”

“You deserve that too,” she said as she lifted her finger away.

“Then what do _you_ deserve?” he cried. “Please. _Please,_ Rapunzel.” He gazed at her, eyes pleading desperately with her.

She was loving this. The smirk had spread all the way across her face, and her green eyes were shining in delight. She spread her knees apart and straddled him. He gasped, sure that she was about to give him what he wanted, but she stopped a few inches above the tip, balancing precariously on the bed, holding for support the same bedpost to which his hands were tied.

“For God’s sake, Rapunzel. _Please.”_

Her lips parted in a grin. With that one word, he had surrendered to her, and they both knew it. Any ground she seemed to give was now merely a reward, a prize that she chose to bestow. She leaned forward, millimeters away from his lips, and beckoned him to close the distance. With a grunt of relief, he did. She let him part her lips once more.

As they dueled, drowning in each other, trying to own each other through the kiss, she finally sank down upon him. He cried out in relief, biting her tongue as she slid onto him. “Oh yes,” he moaned. “Yes.”

She wasn’t quite sure whether she could handle this next part, but she wasn’t about to lose her nerve now. Finally breaking the kiss, she delicately placed her hands on his shoulders. She slid up, almost completely off him. He gave a slight whimper, eyes pleading with her once more not to separate entirely, but she had no intention of it. Quickly she slid back down. He closed his eyes in relief. She moved again. And again. He began to thrust upward to meet her, and they quickly picked up a rhythm that suited both of them.

After tormenting him for so long, she could hardly have waited much longer either. She needed this as badly as he did—and he surely knew it. That was the beauty of it. No matter how much one of them might pretend to be in control of the whole situation, there was a thread of need between them that gave the other one power still.

He was panting by now, clearly about to climax, and she was nearing her own peak too. They couldn’t hold out for much longer. She let out a half gasp, half whimper, and fell apart, clinging to his shoulders in a grip tight enough that it would surely leave bruises, but he didn’t care. He liked it. He loved watching her come apart above him like this. _Loved_ it.

With that thought, he followed her over the edge.

She was still caught up in her own release, but she was just aware enough to reach up, fumble at the knot of his necktie, and release his hands from the bedpost. He tossed the tie on the floor with the other discarded clothes. He let out another gasp of relief and immediately enclosed her in his now-freed arms, holding her close and keeping her in place as he emptied into her. He buried his head in the crook of her neck, squeezing her in a tight hug.

They remained like that for quite some time, both vaguely aware that it was only the afternoon and bright daylight awaited them outside, but neither of them caring. That had taken too much out of them. He pulled her down with him on the pillows, caressing her back, both of them breathing deeply. There would probably be other business to attend to that afternoon, but that could wait.


	6. Nightmarish Thoughts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This occurs between the last full chapter (23) and the epilogue. There are two small scenes (flashfics) in one chapter here, and they don't happen in immediate succession.
> 
> This chapter includes content that might be disturbing to some people. It also contains a bit of the promised social commentary.

### Dreams of Loss

Rapunzel bounded across the elegant, be-fountained lobby of the condominium tower, her bare feet lightly touching the tile and then springing off the floor so fluidly that she felt as if she were flying. She had never done this before—never been _able_ to do this before—and it was a wonderful feeling. The fountain system coiled throughout the lobby in a design that she had never fully appreciated before. It was so intricate, almost otherworldly in its pattern. She gazed up at the crystal chandelier that dangled several stories above, suddenly absolutely certain that if she wanted to, she could leap up and touch it before gently sailing down to the floor again like a feather. That’s what she wanted to do, she decided at once. She hunched over like a jumper about to spring. Her heart pounded with anticipation.

And then suddenly, her attention was drawn to the trail of blood that led across the elegant lobby to the back, where the elevators were. That wasn’t right. The blood seemed to lead…. Rapunzel felt a shudder of horror ripple over her as she saw where the trail ended. It was right below her. This was her blood. But how could that be?

Flynn came into sight from around the corner. His face was set, his features grim and angry. He stared at her with undisguised rage. “You,” he said accusingly.

She felt guilty, terribly guilty, all of a sudden. Frozen in place, her eyes fixed upon him, she stared helplessly at his face.

“You killed her.”

Rapunzel noticed a bloodstained bundle of white linens in his arms that she hadn’t seen before. She began to tremble. “I didn’t kill anyone,” she pleaded. “This is all a big mistake.” But she knew, somehow, that it wasn’t. She didn’t even realize it at the time, but she knew now that she had indeed had a miscarriage when she was leaping about joyfully, and it was her fault.

“You lost her because you were careless,” he said coldly, thrusting out the blood-soaked bundle to Rapunzel. She took it in her arms, utterly unable to refuse it, but couldn’t bear to unwrap what was inside it.

“You weren’t good enough,” he said accusingly. “I don’t want you anymore.” A sneer formed over his face, and he turned away from her and began to walk away.

“Flynn, no!” she called out desperately, but he ignored her and disappeared into the shadows. She stood rooted to the floor, unable to follow him, holding the bundle. She didn’t want to open it. She didn’t want to see. But for some reason, she couldn’t help herself as she fumblingly drew back a bloodstained flap of white material….

Rapunzel’s eyes snapped open. The distorted image of the lobby, with its inaccurate fountain, over-large chandelier, and blood-spattered tile, dissolved, as did the bundle of horror that she had just been dreaming about holding. Darkness met her eyes instead. Her heart still pounded, and her body was coated in sweat. _It’s not real,_ she told herself determinedly. _That didn’t happen._ As if to try to convince herself of it, she gazed out the window at the lights of Fairfax that cast a dim light into their bedroom even in the middle of the night. Her gaze then dropped to the man sleeping next to her.

She shifted in bed onto her back and touched her burgeoning abdomen. _Five and a half months and still there, and perfectly healthy,_ she thought. _Perfectly healthy._ Resolutely, repeatedly, she thought this, as if casting an incantation against harm. The finger bearing her wedding ring—they both slept with them on—passed over the stretched skin. _That’s fine too._

Flynn stirred next to her. She bit her lip, suddenly feeling terribly guilty about her movements waking him up. He blinked himself awake and gazed over at her.

“Are you okay?” he mumbled. “Why are you awake?”

She grimaced, suddenly ashamed of herself and what she perceived to be her weakness. She looked down guiltily, not wanting to answer, but he guessed the situation. “Did you have a nightmare?” he asked gently. She glanced up at him, eyes wide with pain, and nodded quickly.

He placed an arm around her and brought her close to him. “It’s okay,” he whispered, stroking her back. “It was just a dream.”

Her words caught in her throat as she spoke. “I dreamed I lost the baby,” she said. “And… that you blamed me… and left me. Left me holding her.” She cast her eyes down, too ashamed to meet his gaze.

He flinched. She could feel it. He didn’t speak for a moment, but finally he seemed to find words. “But none of that really happened,” he said. He leaned forward and kissed her nose. His hand found its way to her belly. “She’s fine, and she’s been fine ever since we knew she was there.” He caressed the spot gently. “You’ve been so protective of her, so careful about everything.”

Rapunzel knew that was what her doctor had always said, every time she went for a checkup, but her last visit had been a week ago. Deep down inside she knew it wasn’t a logical worry to have, but what if something really bad had gone wrong over the course of that week? A thought that didn’t even cross her mind in daylight and waking consciousness was suddenly a lot harder to banish in the dark after such a vivid and terrible nightmare. And besides, there was something else…. “But what if it did—what about you—”

He looked her straight in the eye. “I would never blame you, because I know you would never want that to happen. And I’m not leaving you even if it did. I promise you that.” He kissed her cheek lightly. “But it won’t, sweetheart.”

“You can’t know—”

“As far along as you are, the chances of it happening now are very slim. And you’re so careful. _It will be fine, Rapunzel.”_ He held her, hands on her sides, very firmly, as if to steady her from the turmoil of her own fears.

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He drew her as close as he could, keeping his hand on her belly the whole time. The combination of his touch, her deep breath, his words, and her own general sense of returning to the real world seemed to be comforting her. Her heart was slowing down to a normal rate, in any case, and the images from the nightmare were fading from her memory even now. Her eyes fluttered shut once again. He gave her a squeeze.

Beneath the spot where his hand rested, she felt a kick. Her eyes popped open and instantly found his inches away, just as wide. He had felt it too. Even in the darkness, she thought she saw his brown eyes glittering over what had just happened.

“There you go,” he said. “She’s also telling you not to worry.” A faint smirk graced his handsome features. He kept his hand in place.

“Don’t be silly; she doesn’t understand—if she can even hear anything yet,” Rapunzel said, but in spite of her words, a grin was forming on her face too. This was not the first time by far that they had felt her kicking, and it had been going on for enough weeks that Rapunzel was used to it. But at the moment, it was definitely the most welcome thing that could have happened.

Another kick, which they both felt. The smirk on Flynn’s face widened. “You sure?” he teased.

“Oh hush,” Rapunzel said, stifling a laugh. She snuggled against him, feeling much better now.

“Are you okay now?” he asked in a softer, more serious tone.

She gazed up at him and smiled. “Yeah.”

He smiled back, leaned over, and gave her a peck on the forehead. “Good. I love you, sweetie.”

“I love you too.”

He squeezed her again very gently before closing his eyes. She lay there for a few moments, relishing the warmth of him and the feeling of his arm around her like a protective shield, before nodding off herself.

No further nightmares troubled either of them that night.

* * *

### Last Two On Earth

_Its progenitor came from the tropics, deep in the warm, dark, humid, seasonless womb that is the rainforest. The jungle pulses with vividly poisonous hues amid a background of green, blue, and brown, and there, the processes of evolution are not merely some imperceptibly slow physical change of familiar and long-established species over thousands of years. It is instead an experimental laboratory of new life, with species fated to be forever unknown to man bursting into being and then fading to extinction, whether because of some fatal flaw in their own genetic code, or because a species more suitably adapted followed them. It is cruel but beautifully necessary. A new mutation seeming to be perfectly fitted for its environment may be hopelessly, laughably inefficient in comparison to the mutation of tomorrow._

_Sometimes, a piece of genetic code reaches a kind of perfection for its tropical habitat, having proved its fitness by surviving while competitors vanished. But perfection in the tropical rainforest is no guarantee of suitability or even survival anywhere else on earth, and many an organism that thrived in the moist cradle withered away in the harsher environments of the outside world. Rather than leave a safe environment to be tossed into the fray of ruthless competition again, some organisms carrying such perfectly fitted code may remain in their niche, waiting for discovery._

_Or a more perfect union. A marriage with outside code, introduced accidentally, that could lead to offspring capable of what neither parent could do alone._

_When the Committee for Stewardship and Repopulation tracked down the last surviving geneticist of what used to be Valento Corporation, the man insisted that his company’s intentions had been well-meaning. They never created artificial genes for any sinister purpose. Higher crop yields. Self-defense through pesticide generation. Beautiful colors. Fortification with vitamins. All good things._

_“But why emphasize use in the developing world?” the Committee asked—but he had an answer for that too, and it too was good. Help the starving. Encourage the poor farmers to grow their own food and become self-sufficient. Support new economies. All the very best of intentions._

_They most certainly didn’t intend what happened, the scientist said indignantly._

_The Committee was unmoved by claims of “didn’t mean to.” What might have been acceptable, in happier times, for a careless child’s mess, was only grating and irritating when applied to a hybrid natural/synthetic virus that brought a horrible new meaning to “survival of the fittest.” They spared his life only because at that point, they needed every living soul they could find to maintain genetic diversity in what remained of the human species._

* * *

“That’s amazing,” came a familiar female voice from a few feet away.

Flynn whirled around in his chair and smiled as he met Rapunzel’s eyes. She had been reading behind his back as he edited his work. “Thanks,” he said. “I have no idea if I’m going to do anything with it, but sometimes I just get these ideas that won’t let go, you know. I needed to get it out of my system.”

She laughed. “So you just wanted to write a few paragraphs about… a world where most of humanity died of a hybrid GMO-tropical death virus. That’s nice.”

He grinned and winked. “You knew what kind of stuff I liked to write.”

She smiled and began to run her fingers through his hair. “Oh, yes… and it serves a purpose, too. A warning.”

“Nobody would see it as a warning now,” he said with a smirk. “Post-apocalyptia is too fashionable now for anyone to take it seriously. The modern dystopias are sneered at by literary snobs as ‘genre fiction’—as if that’s a slur—and some of the classic ones are not even regarded as bad things anymore if they come to pass. _Fahrenheit 451_ and _Brave New World_ at least. The authors were just crotchety old Western male conservatives mired in the fears and prejudices of their time, you know,” he said caustically.

“Flynn.”

“Who couldn’t see that these things they wrote about were actually ‘progress,’ just as their villains said—”

 _“Flynn.”_ Rapunzel had heard this rant before, and while she agreed with him in principle, she didn’t want to be the audience for it again.

“Okay, okay. My point is, if I expand this into a novel, the only purpose it will serve is to increase the balance of our bank accounts.”

“Well, that’s cynical. Accurate, probably,” she conceded, “but still cynical.”

“It’s not a crass calculation. I like the concept; a lot of other people like the concept; I can _write_ what they want. What’s going on with post-apocalyptic fiction is different from politically-motivated defense of dystopian societies. People _instinctively_ like the idea of post-apocalyptia.”

“That is very convenient conclusion for you, I’m sure.”

“Oh, come on, you have to admit there’s a certain romance about the scenario. Surviving on your own with no help from institutions, just you and your few companions and the harsh new world. Which you’re supposed to repopulate, of course.” His hands found her waist and then moved slightly lower, lightly caressing the bulge. Five and a half months along.

She laughed and leaned down, pressing her face into his hair. She breathed deeply.

“What are you doing?” he said, stifling a laugh himself.

“You smell good,” she said. She breathed in again. “It smells like your shampoo, aftershave and cologne nearby, and… something else. An organic scent. I guess that’s _you._ It smells so nice.”

Flynn raised an eyebrow as his hands moved back to her waist. “Rapunzel, do you want me to take you to bed?” he said. “Is that what you came in here for?”

She drew away and looked at him indignantly. “No! I mean, I’m not opposed, but that’s not why I came in here. I just wanted to read what you were writing.”

He smiled. “Well, that’s it. It’s just a little drabble. Maybe it’ll become a story; maybe it won’t… but I’m done for the night.” He stood up from his chair and stretched.

“Then I should get dinner going,” she said in a different, more businesslike tone as they began to walk out of the study.

He put a hand on her shoulder. “Wait. I kind of want to go out tonight. That okay?”

“Want to reassure yourself that the human race still exists?” she teased him. “That we’re not the last two on earth—well, three, I suppose—and it’s still safe to gather in public?”

He smirked. “I wouldn’t admit it if I did.”

“You don’t have to,” she exulted. He put on a fake hurt face at this. “Oh, don’t. You know I love you for being imaginative,” she cried.

“And I, you,” he said. He leaned down and kissed her on top of her head. “Let’s get ready, then.”


	7. It Was a Dark and Stormy Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have held off posting this because it seemed to be in extremely poor taste if the US East Coast was about to get hit by a hurricane. Since it appears that that is unlikely to happen, here we go.
> 
> Yes, the storm in this chapter was Sandy.

The wind, which bore cold rain that stung their faces, was already up as Flynn and Rapunzel shuffled through the revolving door into the fancy lobby carrying shopping bags full of food. Worry lines marked his face as he turned to her.

“I hope this isn’t a mistake,” he said as his gaze dropped from her face to her lower abdomen. “I still think you should have flown out to Denver to be with your grandparents, but it’s too late now.”

She shook her head. “I told you, if you stay, I stay—and you wouldn’t think of leaving _yourself.”_

“Because there was no reason for me to leave.”

“Then there was no reason for _me_ to leave.”

“I just don’t want you to panic if it gets rough,” he said.

She actually laughed at that. “I won’t panic.”

“Also, we’re probably going to lose power. It’ll be cold.”

“Then we’ll huddle up and start a fire,” she said, smiling at him. “Your fireplace isn’t entirely ornamental, even though _you_ probably have never used it—”

“You assume a great deal,” he said in a faux-defensive tone.

“And we got all that wood yesterday for a reason, remember.”

He managed to smile back as he shifted his sack in his arms. “Yes, but still….”

Another condo owner, a woman with four little redheaded girls—three of them tugging at her skirt—was in the lobby as well, and she turned to her fellow residents with a look of concern and sympathy. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t help but overhear,” she said. “What floor are you on?”

“Twelfth,” Flynn said. “The top.”

The lady glanced at Rapunzel and the visible bump that her Empire-waist peasant blouse did not conceal. “The winds will be highest there. We’re on the fourth floor—and if it gets bad, please feel free to come down.”

“Thank you,” he said, looking at the lady with gratitude. “We’ll keep that in mind.”

An elevator bell sounded, and both families piled into the unit. Rapunzel set down her grocery bag and stretched her arms. She was only about a month and a half into the second trimester, but she was still starting to feel the extra weight. The mother and her four children got off at their floor, and Flynn and Rapunzel stayed in the elevator until it reached the top floor.

“I know you’re concerned, but the community managers made everyone put up their storm windows,” Rapunzel said as they walked down the hall to their condo. “So it ought to be all right.”

He unlocked the door and let them in. “It won’t be fun, Rapunzel.”

“Maybe not,” she agreed. “It’s not my idea of fun either, but c’mon Flynn, you act like I’ve never seen bad weather before. I lived in a cabin in the Alaskan mountains.”

“This is a different kind of bad weather.” He set down his bag of groceries on the kitchen counter next to hers.

“Maybe so… but I think you’re just worrying about me because that’s what you do,” she said, pinching his side teasingly.

He turned around with a raised eyebrow and a mischievous twinkle in his eye. Her eyes grew wide, and she turned to run, but he darted across the floor and grabbed her around the waist before she could. “Oh no you don’t,” he murmured in her ear as he caught her. “I’m protective, you say?”

“Very,” she agreed. His grip on her waist tightened, sending a rush of pleasure over her.

He nuzzled the top of her head. “Then it’s because you need it,” he said. “Since you wouldn’t let me fly you out to your grandparents’ house, you’ve got to put up with me.”

“I think I can handle that. A month ago we promised that we’d put up with each other,” she said softly.

He smiled as he released her and went back to his grocery bag. He began unpacking cans of tuna, a box of crackers, peanut butter, and cookies. She brought out a bag of apples and a loaf of bread. The extra jugs of water they had filled, in case the water system failed, already sat on the kitchen floor.

Shortly the food was packed up. They plugged in their phones to make sure that when—and Flynn was sure it would be “when”—the power failed, at least they would have a full charge. They shuffled out to the living room and sat down on the blue couch. He threw an arm around her.

“And now we wait,” she said.

* * *

The wind gradually increased as the afternoon progressed. The newlyweds bustled around the condo, drinking coffee and hot chocolate while they still had electricity, but not committing to anything that would take a while to complete. Flynn glanced up at the windows, covered with see-through storm windows, and frowned from time to time. It had to be gusting around 60 miles per hour. Drops of rain lashed the walls at nearly horizontal angles. Occasionally a piece of debris from the ground, like a leaf or a fragment of sodden discarded newspaper, was blown against a window.

“This is going to be a bloody mess,” Flynn remarked as he turned away from the window and headed back toward the kitchen for another cup of coffee. “The car is going to be coated in crap.”

Rapunzel glanced up wryly at him as she poured creamer into her own coffee. “A lot of people have much bigger problems than that, Flynn.”

“I know,” he said. “We’re fortunate, all things considered. It’s going to be ugly for a lot of folks in days to come.”

The storm continued to batter the windows as daylight gave way to dusk. Their condo occupied the southeast corner of the building, a fact that had made it more desirable when he had bought it a few years ago, but, unfortunately, now put it directly in the path of the winds from the offshore storm.

They had a hot meal for dinner, since they both silently expected it would be their last such meal for a while, but she did not prepare any more food than they could eat. There were no leftovers to put away and worry about spoiling.

The power went out as the sun dipped below the horizon.

“Figures,” Flynn muttered as the lights snapped off. “I guess I might as well get this going now, before it gets too cold.” He trudged over to the fireplace and lit the log that lay there. Three more logs were piled up on the nice brick hearth. He nudged at the burning embers with the poker, getting the flame to spread, and then adjusted the screen in front of the fire. Before long a bright fire crackled inside the fireplace. Rapunzel smiled, feeling a rush of inner warmth come over her at the sight of her capable husband tending the fire. She went back to their bedroom and emerged in a fleece hoodie, carrying a heavy blanket and a fluffy extra pillow. When they got ready to go to sleep, they were planning to cuddle up on the long sectional couch and quell the flames, leaving behind only glowing embers for safety’s sake.

He sat down on the couch next to Rapunzel and placed an arm around her shoulder, pulling her close to him. She nestled against him and pulled one of the blankets over their legs. The wind continued to rage, the buildings and trees continued to groan and creak, and the sheets of cold rain continued to slam against the windows. They knew it would be with them for a while, and they knew it would leave behind a mess, but they also knew that together they could weather the storm.


	8. Pride Goeth Before a (Snow)fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is set between chapter 23 of Bad Influence and the epilogue. Anyone who has ever lived or worked in the DC metro area knows exactly what this is like.

“That won’t help, you know.”

Flynn took his hand off the car horn a fraction of a second before a sound could escape. He turned to face Rapunzel, who sat in the passenger seat with her arms folded over her chest, above her burgeoning almost-six-months-pregnant belly. Her face was a mixture of exasperation, smugness, and triumph—and only the exasperation made rational sense given their current situation.

_Rational_ sense, that is, which was different from _emotional_ sense. From an emotional perspective, Flynn had to grudgingly admit that the smugness and triumph in her visage made perfect sense.

Six hours earlier, at the bookstore coffee shop in downtown Washington where they had been Christmas shopping, she had told him that they needed to get away as soon as they could, because the storm was about to hit. She had gestured at the heavy gray sky out the large windows of the store, her face filling with concern. “They’re calling for six inches in a few hours,” she had said anxiously. “The weather man on TV said they were expecting it to ‘bomb out’ offshore. We need to get out of here, Flynn. People in this town don’t know how to handle snow. It’ll be bad if we don’t get a head start on it.”

In response, he had made this statement: “Oh, traffic will be fine. There may be six inches when the storm is over, but it won’t be more than about an inch early on. These storms are always over-hyped. They never snow as much as people think they will.”

She hadn’t believed it then, but he had argued that he was the one with years of experience _driving_ in this area, as opposed to only walking or taking public transportation. _He_ knew how to handle roads slick with winter precipitation… and, more importantly, he had the car and he was the only driver, so he was ultimately the one calling the shots on it.

And that was how they found themselves stranded in growing dark in an unmoving line of vehicles westbound on I-66, while the storm flung snow-laden blasts at the windshield.

“You know, I _am_ sorry about this,” he said sheepishly to her, his features forming a rather pitiable, deer-in-the-headlights look.

Ordinarily that expression would be cute to Rapunzel, but at this particular moment, she was unmoved. “You should have listened to me,” she said.

“I know,” he agreed in a deliberately humble tone.

“But I guess nobody knows better than Flynn about anything,” she continued sardonically. “He’s the all-purpose expert. How _amazing_ he must be to have a better grasp on the weather than people who’ve studied it… or to predict _so well_ how DC people will respond to a snowstorm. Or—”

He scowled. “Look, I made a mistake, okay? _This_ won’t help either.”

She stopped the flow of sarcastic digs and heaved a sigh as she put her head in her hands. The triumph and smugness melted away, as well as the exasperation, leaving her looking nervous and upset. “I know… I know. It’s just… we’ve been in the car for three hours and we’re barely outside of Arlington. I’m worried, Flynn.” She put a hand on her belly and looked down.

He suddenly felt terrible about the situation. Reaching over, he placed a hand gently on her shoulder. She clutched at it with her own.

“I guess I might as well turn off the car,” he said. “Traffic’s not moving.”

“Will you be able to start it again when people do start to move?” she asked concernedly.

He nodded. “Yeah. I just don’t see any point in wasting gasoline. Let me know if you get cold, though.”

They sat in silence for a minute or so. The cars around them still did not move, though a few impatient, irrational drivers did resort to honking their horns in vain. It occurred to Flynn that having the headlights on with the engine off would ultimately drain the battery, and that _would_ be a serious problem, so he switched them off. The interior instruments also went dark, leaving the car’s occupants surrounded by darkness on the inside, whirling blasts of snow on the outside.

Rapunzel suddenly unbuckled her seatbelt and scooted next to him, curling against him.

“You okay?” he asked, startled.

“Yeah,” she said quietly.

He put his right arm around her, drawing her close. She leaned her head against his shoulder.

“I guess you’re not _too_ mad at me, then,” he said through a smirk. He almost regretted saying it—it sounded rather arrogant, a quality that she probably would not find too endearing right now, since that was what had gotten them into this situation—but he couldn’t resist.

_“Oh_ yes I am,” she said immediately.

The rebelliousness and spunk were back in her voice, and he was glad. He would much rather have her bright and sparkling—even if it were the heated sparkle of annoyance with him—than morose and anxious. “Oh, are you?” he said in a taunting voice. “You’re not acting like it, getting this close and all.” He wasn’t sure why he was doing this, but she didn’t sound as if she was actually _angry._ If she started to get truly pissed off, he would stop—but for now, this could be fun. And it wasn’t as if they had anything better to do.

She peered up at his face with a dry smile. “Actually, you’re just the warmest thing in the car,” she said, in a tone that suggested issuing a challenge.

He accepted the challenge. “Is that it? All right. But I can get you even warmer if you like.” He winked at her and let the hand that was around her side trail down, resting briefly on her hip. Then his fingers found their way under her maternity sweater, ghosting over bare skin.

She gasped at what he was doing. “Flynn! We’re in a _car,_ in the _middle of a traffic line—”_

“In a snowstorm at night,” he finished. He wiggled an eyebrow at her. “I think anyone who walks through this to peep in folks’ windows deserves whatever they see.” He unbuckled his seatbelt and leaned across the seat, slipping his hand under her waistband.

“Stop,” she protested feebly, though she made no move to remove his hand herself. “This isn’t dignified. It’s like, I don’t know, two teens or something—”

He chuckled at her feeble excuse and slid his fingers into her panties, leaning in closer. He gripped her around the waist with his left hand, holding her so that she couldn’t twist away. “Yeah?” he whispered against her ear. “Did you fool around in a car with some boy when you were a teen?”

“Of course not,” she said scornfully. “You know that. I wouldn’t be surprised if _you_ did it, though.”

“Ouch,” he said. “No, sweetheart, actually I didn’t have my driver’s license until I was in college, and I wasn’t legal until I was a junior. I’ve never done _this_ with anyone before either.”

She wasn’t sure what to say to that. A part of her did want him to continue—and the fact that they were in a car, surrounded by cars full of other people, did admittedly excite her. But he shouldn’t be rewarded for the pride and arrogance that got them into this.

His fingers trailed down her skin, passing lightly over the tuft of hair, getting closer and closer to the most sensitive spot. His breath was hot against her face, and she couldn’t ignore it, though she tried not to squirm _too_ much at his touch. It would only encourage him.

“So how about it, love? I can’t think of anything else I’d rather do right now.” Even in the dark, there was enough light from the surrounding city and the reflection of the snow outside to make the wicked smirk on his handsome face _very_ evident.

She gave up her pretenses of not wanting this. “All right,” she said. She leaned forward and took his face in her hands, pressing her lips against his. He groaned, pulling her across the seat into his lap, where she faced him. His other hand never left its spot, and when she was settled, he let his fingers dart oh so lightly across her inner thigh. So close. _So close—_

Then he closed the tiny remaining distance, slipping first one finger, then the one next to it, into her center. She was absolutely wet, a fact that made him smirk in satisfaction, and he began to slide his fingers in and out. His thumb found her clit and immediately began to rub her, ever so gently. She let out a hiss and began breathing heavily, rocking with him, trying to keep pace with the movements of his hand. He brought his left hand up her back, resting it at last on the back of her head, and slid his tongue across her lower lip slowly.

“Getting warmer?” he whispered heavily in the brief moment when he surfaced from her mouth for air. At that same instant he slid his fingers out of her almost completely, leaving only the slightest edge of the fingertips inside.

For a moment she could only respond with a gasp and moan of need—intense need—for him to go back, to not leave her unfinished like this. Then he slipped his fingers back in her all the way, giving her the relief she sought. She found her voice, though it was husky and breathy. “You owed me this,” she managed to say.

“Did I?”

“For getting us stuck out here.” She spoke quickly, as if she had a time limit on getting the words out.

He knew why she was talking so fast—why she was gasping out her statements with such desperation. She was at his mercy; with just a touch, he could render her speechless again—and she knew it. The pad of his thumb, slightly calloused from hours and hours of writing, ran smoothly over her clit. She gave a whimper and looked pleadingly at him. She was so close, begging him wordlessly to finish, to give her what she wanted.

“Maybe I did,” he agreed in a whisper. He brought her into another deep kiss. “Maybe I did,” he murmured again next to her mouth, trailing his tongue lightly across the barest inside of her lower lip. “But _you_ owe _me_ now… so show me how much you liked that and come for me,” he ordered in a soft, low growl. He pressed gently against her clit and plunged his fingers into her again as far as they would go.

That did it. She fell apart, letting out a cry and falling against his chest, breathing heavily, as sensations rippled over her. Although the heat had been off for quite a few minutes now, she was nonetheless coated in sweat, which her winter clothing kept sealed in along with the body heat that had generated it. As she finally began to come down, she felt his fingers slip out of her and slide oh so slowly up her inner thigh, toward her hips. He seemed to be pointedly leaving a trail of her own juices across her heated skin, where it would quickly soak into her satiny panties, and when she caught his eye, there was no question of it. The look he had on his face was positively evil. She realized that he wanted to leave evidence behind of what they had done.

Finally he brought his hand past her waistband, out from under her clothes, and into the dry air—but not for long. He was still smirking wickedly. Suddenly she realized what he intended and tried to back away, but it was no use. She felt his other hand, the one that had never left the back of her head, stiffen. He forced his sodden fingers between her lips, holding her head in place so that she couldn’t move away from him. With no choice left, she began to suck and lick on his fingers, tasting herself, licking them clean. He looked very smug and satisfied as he slid them out of her mouth—for now. She could tell, still being seated in his lap, that he would soon have a situation that would need attending to, and she hoped that….

Suddenly he gave a chuckle and blushed faintly. “Well, that was good timing,” he remarked. He switched the headlights on the car back on.

She peered around, craning her neck and shifting her position so she could see out the front windshield. The snow-filled gusts of wind appeared to have slacked off somewhat, and she was pretty sure her eyes were not deceiving her that traffic ahead of them was moving again. She shifted the rest of the way off him and fell back into the passenger seat, almost disappointed that this had to end.

He looked over and apparently saw the unhappy look on her face. “Hey, don’t worry,” he said. “We can carry on when we get home.” He gave her a lewd wink as he buckled his seatbelt and started the engine.

She chuckled, winking back at him and buckling her own belt. “You’re so full of yourself,” she teased. “You assume I’ll want to.”

“Because you will,” he said smugly. “I may not be able to predict a snowstorm, but I know I can predict that.”

She blushed hotly and looked down at her lap, but she couldn’t hide the smile that was spreading over her face.


	9. Meanwhile, Elsewhere

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elsa! And those who have read all of my stories will recognize her "mentor" as well.
> 
> For a time I thought about writing a back story for DC Elsa that mirrors the themes of Frozen, but I don't think that's going to happen for several reasons. It wouldn't contain a love interest for her, it would be intensely political (as this oneshot hints at), and it has huge potential to turn into self-insertion/autobiography, which I don't think anyone wants. There will be more Elsa in future scenes, as well as Anna and Kristoff.
> 
> This occurs two months before chapter 2 (by AO3's numbering system -- i.e., the chapter after the prologue) of Bad Influence.

Glasses sparkled in the muted lights of the hotel restaurant, and a pleasantly low chatter filled the spaces. Most of the noise seemed to be coming from the bar, which, as it happened, was also the best lit part of the restaurant. The people seated there intended to be seen as they drank, smiled, and socialized with each other. Most of the other patrons were clustered in small groups at tables, holding their own private conversations. It was only lunchtime, but the sky was so gloomy that it was still rather dark inside. Nobody noticed the blonde lady slouched miserably over her drink at a tiny table in the dimmest part of the restaurant.

Elsa Rendell supposed that most of that was her own doing, sitting with hair bound tightly on top of her head, garbed in a baggy black patterned sweater, high-waisted teal jeans, and a bulky violet scarf that she still had wrapped around her neck even indoors. She had only removed her gloves once her drink arrived and she remembered that she still had them on. Everyone else in this bar was dressed in stylish winter work clothes, but the difference wasn’t just her clothing. Her body language shouted _“stay away from me!”_ and she knew it very well. Being left alone was what she wanted. She glanced out the window and noted the swirling flurries.

_I will probably be seeing a lot more of that soon. There’s nothing left for me here, and I should just go back home to Anna,_ she thought unhappily. Her younger sister was in Buffalo, one semester into her Associate’s degree, while their late parents’ remote mountainside house was rented to vacationers. _I should have quit as soon as our parents died and moved back home at once,_ Elsa chastised herself. The deaths had occurred only last spring in a boating accident on Erie, and the only reason Elsa had remained in DC was the persistent conviction that Anna was better off without her wonkish, distant older sister around. She was already having mixed feelings about her job—or at least, her specific workplace—and privately wanting to be out.

_Well, I got that wish._ A tear trickled down Elsa’s pale face and landed on the table next to her mostly finished beer. _I should have left on my own terms. No, I never should have come here._

“Oh, _back_ off and leave me _be!”_ a very upset female voice cried. Elsa’s head shot up almost involuntarily.

A couple of tables down, in a better-lit part of the restaurant, a woman with short reddish hair who looked to be in her early middle ages darted away from a young, fashionably bald guy who was clearly pestering her. She glared and stormed away, heading for the little-used side door.

Ordinarily, Elsa would not interfere with someone or even make her presence known, but the expression on this woman’s face was that of someone who had just had her heart ripped out and trampled on. And at the moment, Elsa could empathize completely. She didn’t have any idea what the heartbreak was about, but she knew the _feeling_ very well.

“Wait!” she called to the lady.

The woman whirled around, looking for the source. When she saw the bundled-up blonde at the table, a scowl formed on her features. “Where’s _your_ camera?” she snapped. “Or do you have a mic hidden on you instead?” At this, her voice broke.

_“What?”_ Elsa exclaimed. “Why on earth would I do that? I don’t work for one of the three-letter agencies. In fact, as of today, I’m not working any—” She stopped quickly, but it was too late.

The woman’s expression had softened. “You mean you don’t….” Hesitantly she stepped back to Elsa’s table and hovered over it.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t recognize me.”

Elsa studied the woman. “No. Should I? I think”—she frowned—“I think I may have seen you before, but I can’t place where. Probably just around, if you work in this vicinity.”

The woman was gazing quizzically at Elsa. Relief was almost palpable in her face. “I… _used_ to do so too. I’m sorry. I thought you were going to… well, never mind. May I sit down?”

“Certainly.”

She took the other seat at the tiny table and gazed at Elsa, not saying a word as Elsa drained her glass. When it was empty, she finally spoke.

“You said you lost your job today?”

Elsa nodded unhappily.

“I’m sorry to hear that. Where did you work?”

Elsa scowled. “A firm called ‘the Progressive Center for Environmental Justice.’ I had been there a year and a half, and they dismissed me because I disagreed with the direction they were going.” She breathed deeply. “We were on the same page when I started work there, but not anymore.   I thought I would be advocating for clean energy, carbon capture, and climate modification, but _they_ want to push for things that I cannot get on board with, social engineering-type stuff. I _don’t_ like it when regular people are forced to do things ‘for their own good.’  I _hate_ that sort of thing.” At that, she fell silent, fearful that she had told too much to a stranger for it to come across as normal.

The woman did not seem bothered by the information dump. Instead she was giving Elsa a very wry look. “I’m familiar with a few people who run that firm,” she said in a low tone. “They like to feel superior to everyone else. You put up with them longer than I would have. Try to let it go.”

“You know people in environmental advocacy?”

The woman looked very sad. “Yes. I do.”

Elsa gazed at the woman’s face. There was something awfully familiar about it. “I’m sorry, but _do_ I know you?”

The woman shook her head as the faintest hint of a smile played at the corners of her mouth. It quickly vanished, however, to be replaced with the same heartbroken look that she had been wearing. “No. I’ve never met you. But… take this from me. I’ve been in this profession”—she gestured out the window at K Street—“for a decade, and I assure you, most firms _do_ want to get things done. Don’t give up. You’re clearly quite young and have your entire career ahead of you. There are worse things to lose a job over… things that could finish a career”—her voice started to break again—“but that’s not one of them. You could even start your own consultancy if you liked. You could do what _you_ wanted to do, take the clients _you_ wanted, be true to your own opinions, and just _go_ with it. You have a resumé now, and a list of contacts.”

_And money,_ Elsa suddenly thought, her eyes growing wide. Her inheritance. It was not insubstantial, especially with the money she was splitting with her sister to rent out their parents’ house. There was plenty for her to get started with. Some of the other nonprofit advocacy groups—or even _for-_ profit businesses that invested in things she approved of—could hire her as a private contractor. Her academic credentials were an additional factor on her side. Yes, this lady was right. It _could_ work!

Elsa met her companion’s eyes again and noticed at once that the lady seemed marginally happier just from having given someone else a boost. The lady stood up, that faint, poignant smile present in her eyes still. “I do need to go, though,” she said quietly. “I wish you the very best of luck.” With a final parting smile, she departed the table and quickly passed through the side door into the snow.

Elsa stayed at the table for a few more minutes, brainstorming excitedly at this new idea. Practical considerations rapidly gave way to joyful daydreaming about incidentals. Her office-to-be was almost furnished in her imagination—when something hit her like a blast of snow from outside. She suddenly remembered where she had seen the lady and who she was. _And_ what had made her so unhappy.

Elsa darted up, scrambling for her gloves. She dashed out the side door and nearly skidded on the ice. _“Wait!”_ she called down the street.

Several people stopped to stare at her as she looked around from left to right. It was no use. The woman was gone, probably in a taxi, but possibly in her own car if it had been in one of the nearby garages. Elsa cursed herself. _If only I had realized it sooner. I could have tried to make her feel better too._ But this thought vanished as she recalled her companion’s obvious relief at _not_ immediately being recognized and having someone else’s problem to think about instead of her own, even if only for a few minutes.

* * *

**_Five and a half months later_ **

“I don’t understand why this is so interesting to you,” Anna carped, gesturing at the small television on the wall. It displayed a reporter babbling a mile a minute about the minutiae of a bridal gown and the cakes at the reception. “This sort of thing has _never_ been interesting to you before.”

Elsa pulled her gaze away from the screen for a second and smiled enigmatically at her sister. “I’ve told you why, but you don’t believe me. If not for her, we would probably be spending the summer in some cruddy little flat in Buffalo, both of us.”

“I know you _think_ you saw her, but that was only after. You didn’t actually recognize her, so that probably wasn’t her.”

“It was, though.” Elsa smiled again and adjusted her clothes, smoothing out the lacy ice-blue camisole and matching blazer. It was quite different from how she used to dress, but it felt so very freeing not to be bundled up and hidden.

Anna rolled her eyes. “All right, have it your way. But you’re spacing out, you know, and I don’t know what to do next.” She held up a fat stack of folders. “So if you really do want me to help you with these files, you’ll have to look away from that stuff, like it or not.” She tossed the stack of folders on a desk and flounced away to the window.

The TV station was running a brief clip from earlier in the day, apparently to illustrate something that the reporter was saying about the gown. Elsa smiled at the happy first couple onscreen.   “I wish you the very best of luck too,” she murmured softly.


	10. Third Party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This occurs between the end of chapter 23 and the epilogue.
> 
> I've changed the rating for the fic as a whole. That's not because of anything in this piece specifically, but the realization that there are several chapters of smut like this one and more yet to come.

Rapunzel stretched out her legs on the comfortable king-sized bed, observing the large bulge in her midsection beneath the clingy fabric of her nightie. She was almost seven months along, and she was definitely feeling tired from the extra weight these days. She had not put on too much; her figure was not that different except for the addition of the bump itself, but it still felt good to sit down on the bed, stretch, and take the weight off her legs.

It also felt good—in a different way—to admire the bump from a relaxed position, to place a hand over it, maybe feel the occasional kick, and grow cozily warm all over at the thought of it all. When she thought _too_ hard about it, she still became afraid; this was a bigger responsibility than anything she had ever had in her life. However, after almost half a year of knowing about it, she had become used to the idea, and she had to acknowledge that there was something really thrilling about the thought of carrying _his_ child—her sweet, sexy husband.

Actually, she thought, it didn’t just give her an _emotional_ thrill. It was a physical one too. It was strange to her in a way, but for a while now, she had found it extremely arousing to think about her condition and—especially—the fact that she was going to have a baby with _him._ It was a new level of closeness to him, even when he wasn’t physically present.

She smiled contentedly as her hand passed over the bump, her smooth gold ring gleaming in the dim light. She didn’t wear her engagement ring to bed; the diamond setting could scratch, but she did wear _this_ ring—and the sight of it, in conjunction with the present state of her thoughts, broadened her smile. Flynn would be out of the shower very soon; the water had been off for several minutes, and the hair dryer had just gone silent. He wouldn’t have much else to do. He had the gift of low-maintenance looks, rarely having to do much more than shave, comb his hair, and lightly spritz it the next morning, so he did not usually stay long in the bathroom after his shower. She found herself eagerly anticipating his return; her musings had quickly put her “in the mood.”

The door to the bathroom opened and he stepped out in his robe and pajama pants, smoothing his freshly dried hair. He glanced at her, sprawled out on the bed, and smiled as he sat down. The mattress shifted with his weight, and she felt herself sliding towards him as he scooted close to her.

He planted a light kiss on her cheek and placed an arm around her waist, sending a warm tingle all over her. “What’ve you been thinking about?” he asked.

“What do you think?” she replied, looking meaningfully at him.

His gaze dropped to her lower abdomen, following her own. Then he glanced back up at her. “Ah, of course.” He placed a hand over the bump and kept it there, silently smiling.

As sweet as the gesture was, Rapunzel was still impatient. _Her_ thoughts had already moved past sweetness and chaste touches. She wanted him.

“It’s really hot to think about carrying your baby,” she blurted out, feeling her face flush with embarrassment at the confession, but only for a moment.

She watched as he raised an eyebrow, his eyes grew wider, and his smile turned into an amused smirk. A chuckle escaped him. “You think so?” he said, grinning.

She smiled crookedly back at him, feeling proud of herself. “I do.”

He burst into a toothy smile, and before she could react, pushed her down on the pillow. He leaned across her, putting an elbow on the pillow on either side of her head and propping himself up as he peered down at her. “Funny,” he breathed, “but I was just thinking about how hot _you_ look with this bump… and knowing I caused it,” he finished with a wicked smirk.

“Not intentionally,” she teased.

“How do you know that?” he asked, winking.

She raised an eyebrow. “Because you were surprised when I first told you about it?”

He smirked and bent down to kiss her, then drew back again. “You know,” he said, “I agree it wasn’t _planned,_ but to be honest with you, I _did_ know that it could happen if we didn’t try to prevent it… and I _did_ want it to.”

“That early in our relationship?” she asked skeptically.

“I knew I was in love with you a month after we met,” he said. “You took a bit longer. But yeah… after we finally got together, it didn’t take me long to want this. Why should it? I wanted a family… and I wanted _you._ And yes, it kind of was intentional. Maybe not going the extra mile to _try_ to make it happen, but also not trying to stop it.” He smirked again.

The cocky frankness of his confession, and clear pride in his tone, made her feel playfully defiant even as it also made her want him more. “Is that so?” she said huffily.

“It is.” His tone was utterly unashamed.

_“Hmph,”_ she harrumphed. She didn’t know what to say—this didn’t make her angry, far from it, but she didn’t want _him_ to know that she was perfectly okay with what he had said… and she definitely didn’t want him to know that it turned her on more to hear him so boastful.

Unfortunately for her, her indignant huffing did not fool him. He laughed. “Never play poker, Rapunzel. You’ll get wiped out every time.”

“And what is _that_ supposed to mean?” she said.

“It means….” He paused, staring greedily at her for a moment. “It means that I know you like what I said,” he hissed, suddenly grabbing the hem of her nightgown and pulling the garment up as he rolled his lower body on top of her. Her eyes popped wide open as she felt the bulge of his hardness. It amazed her that he was in this condition already—or had he been ready for her before he even left the shower? She didn’t care, though; what mattered was that he was as ready as she was. All that remained was to get their nightclothes off, and he was at work on that. She raised her arms and let him remove the thin nightie. He tossed it to the other side of the bed, leaving her completely nude.

He was about to untie his own robe when suddenly he stopped cold and backed off, rolling off her. A concerned look came over his face, and he leaned over her bump and placed a hand gently on it again. “Are you all right?” he asked. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

She was almost too disappointed—and frustrated—to respond. “I’m fine,” she said, staring at him, desperation in her words. “Keep going.”

He gazed at her bump. “It’s almost seven months,” he said. “I don’t want to hurt her. I shouldn’t be so rough.”

“You weren’t rough,” she protested. “Please, continue.”

He hesitated for a moment, but his need was becoming too great to ignore as well. He untied his pajama robe, set it down, and loosened the drawstring of his pants, carefully easing them over his erection. She breathed in at the sight of his body, wanting to feel him pressed against her, wishing he would get on with this.

He grinned at her as he set down his pants, his gaze darting admiringly over her form. When their eyes met, his breath caught in his chest. He breathed deeply. “You really are beautiful,” he murmured as he eased himself on top of her again, “and I’m so glad you haven’t been self-conscious about your figure.” He kissed her cheek, and his hand found its way to her bump again.

She smiled and gazed at him flirtatiously from beneath her eyelashes. “I haven’t,” she agreed, “and partly it’s because I have this great guy who knows how a pregnant woman is naturally going to look and doesn’t hold it against her.”

He looked seriously at her. “More than that,” he said. “Who finds it _hot_ when it’s his wife and his kid.”

They gazed at each other for another moment before it was finally too much to take. His breath hitched in his chest, and he looked down, breaking their gaze. He pulled back and opened her legs, positioning himself between them, then moved his hands to her hips. She closed her eyes briefly and breathed in, expecting him to fill her any moment now. She wanted it, and he did too. _So what is he waiting for?_ she thought, opening her eyes.

He was staring at her bump, his features twisted into a look of anxiety. She wondered why for a moment before remembering. A dreadful thought crossed her mind. Was he going to call it off? Deny both of them because he was afraid of his own strength?

He breathed deeply and blinked. Then, to her absolute dismay, he drew back from her, gently climbing over her leg, and collapsed on his back next to her. Her face fell.

“Flynn, you get right back where you were!” she cried. She reached out and grabbed at his waist, trying to pull him back onto her. “You sweet, protective, over-cautious son of a…. You can’t do this! We both need this—”

“Get on top,” he grunted, interrupting her pleas.

She stopped ranting and stared at him. “What?”

“Get on top of me or I’ll pick you up and put you there myself.” He managed a smirk once more.

She continued to stare at him as a grin quickly formed on her face. She was not usually on top, but she had been before, and it was fun… besides, the main thing now was to satisfy herself and him. Relieved that he wasn’t backing out, and eager to finally do this, she sat up, swung a leg around his waist, and straddled him, positioning herself on his tip.

She bent over him and peered down at his face. “I _ought_ to torment you the way you’ve been tormenting me,” she said.

“You won’t, though,” he purred, still smirking at her.

“And I ought to wipe that smirk right off your face.”

“You _will_ do that,” he conceded.

She grinned at him. “You’re right,” she said as she slid down, _finally_ taking him in, feeling the sweet fullness that she had been longing for ever since she got into bed.

He exhaled a sigh of relief and lunged forward to hold her waist. It felt so good for his hands to be there, she thought… large and warm and dry…. She met his eyes, which exuded need and desperation now that he could feel her all around him. The cocky smirk was indeed gone from his face, replaced by a pleading look. He was right, she thought—she wasn’t going to torment him. Not when they both needed this. She leaned forward, placed her palms on his chest to brace herself, and began to move over him.

Time and the world seemed to slip away beneath them as they picked up a rhythm, leaving nothing to their awareness but each other. Rapunzel found herself really enjoying being in control of their movements. She had been unwilling to assume this position for a while after their relationship had become physical, because she was unsure if she would know what to do if she were put in control… but experience with him really had been the best teacher, and that worry was long gone.

His fingers dug into her waist and hips as she slid back and forth and he bucked upward. She loved his firm, possessive grip, a kind of physical confirmation that he liked what she was doing and wanted to keep her in place so she could continue.

She drew closer and closer to her peak until at last, she could do nothing but gasp raggedly and try to keep her eyes from squinting shut by focusing on his equally desperate facial expression. He was so close to coming undone, and seeing him like that brought another heated gasp from her. She was very close too, and the thought crossed her mind that she could send herself over the edge with her own hand. Bracing herself against him now with only her left hand, she brought her right down and tried to finish the job. It didn’t work. She had to have _his_ touch, _his_ hand.

He wasn’t fully aware anymore of what she needed him to do… and she was no longer able to tell him in words, but she could still tell him with actions. She could still fumblingly grasp his left hand, pull it away from her waist, and watch as he became aware of it and figure out what she was trying to do. Together they managed to slip his hand between her legs, right where it needed to be. The slightest brush of his fingers against her center started the thrilling shiver… and then he pressed lightly, sending her mercifully over the edge.

A half-moan, half-shriek escaped her as the shudder traveled repeatedly up and down her body. He let out a gasp and bucked hard into her, and she was vaguely aware of his climax as she began to come down from her own. They gripped each other tightly, keeping each other firmly in place, until she finally felt him start to become soft and gently climbed off him to collapse on her back next to him. He grabbed her hand as she fell onto the pillows, squeezing it, making both of them feel that even though they were no longer intimately joined, they were still close and connected. They breathed heavily side by side, getting as close as they could without either lying on top of the other.

Flynn was the first to be able to speak again. “That was good,” he managed to gasp out.

She gently leaned over to peck him on the cheek. “Yeah… you could say that.”

He turned his head and met her lips with his, sharing a light kiss. When it was over, he smiled. “And I think it proves we’ll do just fine between now and the time she’s born.”

She grinned back and snuggled up close to him. Tiredness from the exertion was overtaking them both; their eyelids began to droop and the pace of their thoughts began to slow down. They would soon doze off… but not before he gently placed his hand over her bump once more.


	11. Anxiety and Relief

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is also set between chapter 23 and the epilogue. I envision it occurring at the end of January.

Flynn downed the dregs of the hospital coffee that Max and Pascal had been bringing to him—and sipping themselves, though not as frequently as he—all evening and into the night. It was bad coffee, far too watery, but Starbucks had closed two hours ago, so Max and Pascal could no longer slip out of the hospital and bring back anything better. Determinedly Flynn shoved his napkin into the bottom of the empty wax paper cup and soaked up whatever remnants of coffee that he could not get out. He began peeling away the rim of the cup, uncurling the waxed paper.

He hadn’t had this nervous habit since college, but it was something to do, at least. Something that he could focus at least a _part_ of his mind—and his hands—upon. Otherwise he knew he would start to rend himself, to twist the doorknob till his fingers were bruised, to beat on the door itself until someone from the hospital staff sympathetically but firmly hauled him away. They’d already had to forcibly remove him from the room after he could not stop screaming, grabbing at the doctors to pull them away from his wife, and trying to hold on to her by the waist.

The grandparents—great-grandparents, if the baby survived—had been notified and had gotten on a flight out of Denver as soon as they could. They were en route now. Their love and support would be needed no matter what happened.

“It’s all my fault,” he groaned, staring into his half-shredded cup.

Pascal glanced up sympathetically. “No it isn’t… it’s not anyone’s fault.”

“But I’m responsible,” he said bleakly. “I was careless and selfish and we should have talked about it first; she wasn’t ready. And she was afraid of this too; _she had a dream about it,_ well something similar to it, Pascal, a nightmare where—”

“Stop,” said Max in a firm tone, cutting off the torrent of anxieties. “Just—stop.”

Flynn seemed surprised at being cut off, but he did stop talking.

“34 weeks, right?” Max continued. His voice wavered—none of them could hide their nervousness completely—but it still had a strength and confidence that calmed Flynn’s nerves a little.

Flynn nodded. “But she’s actually only 32 weeks _old.”_ He didn’t know why he was emphasizing the fetal rather than gestational age, since the lower number only increased his anxieties again, but it seemed more accurate. He would tell the cold truth, he thought with grim clarity, whether it was pleasant or not.

“There are plenty of preemies who survive at a younger age than that,” Max said firmly. He put a hand on Flynn’s back. “Before long, you’ll get to see them both. So stop this regretful talk.”

Flynn gazed up at him miserably. “You didn’t see her,” he moaned. His head sank, and his voice began to shake. “You didn’t see her standing there, clutching her body, fluid pooling all over the floor, crying out to me.” He crumpled to the floor and put his head between his knees, sobbing.

The other two men exchanged unhappy glances as they sat down on either side of him and put their arms around his shoulders for support.

“All I’ve ever wanted to do was protect her,” Flynn choked. “And instead I’ve done something to her that’s _hurt_ her, and now our child is at risk too.” He put his head down again, staring at the floor in silence.

Max and Pascal did not know what to say. Max suddenly realized that his attempts to talk Flynn out of his anxiety were doomed to failure. The only thing that would truly ease his pain and worry was to be allowed back in that room—for the whole ordeal to be over. Sighing, they rested on the floor with Flynn between them, saying nothing, just waiting.

About half an hour later, the door opened at last. All three men leapt to their feet, though Flynn was the first. Max and Pascal stepped away as a nurse came out. She glanced at Flynn, and, noticing that he seemed calm (especially compared to the madman that they had had to remove from the room hours before), smiled faintly at him.

“Your wife wants to see you,” the nurse said.

Flynn felt the blood drain from his face as he asked the question. “Is she okay—are they both—?”

“She’s doing well,” said the nurse, “and your daughter will need to be placed in an incubator in the neonate ICU soon and watched closely, but that’s a precaution we take for all preemies; she is healthy for her age and should be fine too—”

These words were what he needed to hear, and as they registered in his brain, he seemed to unfreeze, the tension—well, some of it—uncoiling. A huge gasp of breath escaped him as he darted into the room.

Rapunzel lay on the bed in a thin hospital gown, holding a tiny bundle next to her chest. Her obstetrician smiled as he passed by, though he barely observed the doctors or nurses; his attention was on the bed. He reached the bedside and met Rapunzel’s bright green eyes. A smile was on her face, which broadened at his presence.

Wordlessly he gazed upon the baby nursing at her breast. He had not exactly seen a _lot_ of babies, but he knew this was still the smallest one he had ever seen. Her skin was flushed and a soft fuzz of dark hair— _his hair,_ he couldn’t help but think—covered her head. Though the baby was naked and Rapunzel did not have anything between the infant’s front and her own skin, she had covered the baby’s back with a soft white blanket, which seemed to make her look even smaller.

“She’s so little,” he said softly, kneeling beside the bed. Gingerly he reached out and stroked the child’s head. His fingers were warm. “Katherine. Hey, sweetie.” A smile formed on his face, and his eyes grew wet at the corners.

“She weighed four pounds and nine ounces,” Rapunzel said, a faint trace of worry in her voice.

“Wow,” he said huskily.

“They’re going to have to put her in an incubator and watch her for a while,” she continued. “Nothing’s wrong—well, _wrong_ wrong. She’s where she ought to be in development. They just do it… to be sure.” A tear trickled down Rapunzel’s face.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he said as he wiped it away. It was hard for him to believe that he was comforting her, given what a nervous wreck he had been, but now that he had seen _her_ calm and happy, and this baby—their daughter—breathing and nursing, he had felt his tension drain away, reverting him back to his usual provider/protector mode. But then a tear tricked down _his_ face.

She glanced up at him, blinked her tears away, and laughed at the trickle on his cheek. “I know. I just… it’s so confusing. I’m feeling so many things right now… I can’t really explain it.”

Flynn smiled indulgently. “I think I understand how you feel, though. Happy, and relieved, and yet I feel bad that she’s going to have it a bit tougher for a while… I wouldn’t have wanted that for her….” He gazed down at baby Katherine. “But at the same time, she’s perfect as she is.”

Rapunzel smiled. “That’s it.” She gazed up lovingly at him, then back down at the baby. “Wait. Can he hold her?” she asked as a nurse stopped by the bed. “He’s not sick or anything.”

The nurse nodded and smiled, and Rapunzel gently brought the baby away from her breast and held her out to him. Gingerly he took his daughter in his large hands, being very careful, as if he were holding a priceless piece of china. _Except more priceless than any artifact,_ he thought, cuddling Kate against his body. She seemed so light to him, so fragile, but her tiny chest was moving with the regularity of unhindered breathing, and her heart must be pumping well for her to have such strong, normal color.

He held her until she opened her eyes again—they were dark blue-gray, though he knew that would not last—and let out a wail. Chuckling, he handed her back to Rapunzel, who took her gently and nestled her against her bosom again to nurse a bit more. This seemed to content her. He smiled—it seemed to him that his mouth would be permanently molded in a smile—and gently stroked her head again. Soon Katherine pulled away and went to sleep against her mother’s warm body.

They stayed like that for a little while longer until, unfortunately, the obstetrician came back to stick a hospital ID bracelet on the baby’s tiny arm and place the child in the incubator where her body functions could be monitored. The new parents didn’t like being parted from her, but the reassurance of the doctor that the baby was not in danger soothed them. They knew that she would be brought back to them soon.


	12. Mending the Bond

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place after the end of Bad Influence.
> 
> Some people might be bothered by it, as it depicts a (verbal) fight.

Looking back, Rapunzel wasn’t sure how it had started or even how long it had been going on. All she was certain of was that, as her twenty-second birthday approached, she felt no excitement, no happiness, nothing but a growing sense of irritation and stress. And finally, on a Thursday a week before her birthday, it all came to a head.

She had just settled down on the couch with a book when a loud, miserable wailing echoed from the bedroom. Her heart rate jumped at the mere sound, and annoyance rushed over her. She closed her eyes and slowly counted to ten. The wailing increased. Finally, giving it up, she slammed her book down on the cushion next to her, stood up, and stormed back to the room.

A very unhappy baby lay in the bassinet, bellowing her head off. The screaming had made the infant flush red, and her face was contorted in such a way that Rapunzel could not help but think, traitorously, that this was one ugly-looking baby at the moment.

“Oh, will you be _quiet?”_ she snarled as she picked her not-quite-two-month-old daughter. “Can’t you give me an hour of peace?”

The wailing quieted down as she carried the baby out to the living room, plopped down on the couch in aggravation, and grudgingly began to nurse. Katherine’s color returned to normal, and as Rapunzel held the child close, she felt the anger toward this baby drain from her. This wasn’t Katherine’s fault, Rapunzel thought. She hadn’t asked to be born, and she couldn’t help doing what all babies did when they were hungry or lonely. Rapunzel felt guilty now about being angry at the baby in the first place. She stroked the little girl’s soft dark hair gently. No, she shouldn’t be angry at her child—and she wasn’t anymore.

But she _was_ still angry. Her thoughts wandered as she nestled the small, now peaceful, baby against her. The reminder that her birthday was a week away only seemed to intensify her anger. She was going to be twenty-two years old. That was too young for what she had to deal with every day. She should be out having fun with her friends and going to the job she’d gotten just last year at a graphic design firm, she thought, not sitting at home all day with a child to take care of and a marriage to keep happy. _I wanted to be an independent adult, but once I had independence, I threw it away. I’ve thrown away my twenties,_ she thought resentfully. _This is how I’m going to be spending them. Last year Pascal and Max wanted me to go with them on spring break, and they said when they got back that they’d insist on it this year. Hah! So much for that idea. No more spring breaks for me._

Flynn had gone into Fairfax to do some grocery shopping. By the time he came back, Rapunzel had worked herself into such a state of resentment that it was apparently obvious, because he nearly dropped the bag that he was carrying when he saw her.

“What in the world is the matter?” he exclaimed, staring at her.

She glared back at him. All the resentment and anger that she had been unable, and unwilling, to direct at innocent little Katherine was focused squarely on him. “Oh, nothing,” she snapped sarcastically. “Just the small fact that I’m unable to even read a book in peace anymore.”

He glanced quickly at Kate, then back at Rapunzel. “You sure that’s all?” he said with a raised eyebrow.

Hearing it asked this way, in this blatantly disbelieving, almost disapproving tone, infuriated her. “No, now that you mention it, that’s not all!” she sneered. “It’s also the fact that I have to stay indoors all day long, _again,_ because it’s too cold to go for long walks with her or do anything else.”

He passed through the living room without comment and continued into the kitchen, carrying his bag. Rapunzel was furious. She was sure that he was simply ignoring her complaints. She set the sleeping baby down gently on the pillow and covered her up with the fuzzy yellow blanket that had been her own. Then, all her irritation surging forth once more, she followed Flynn into the kitchen.

“Don’t walk away and ignore me!” she exclaimed at the sight of his back. He was unloading groceries.

He shut the door to a cabinet and turned around to face her. “I wasn’t,” he said. “I actually think you have a point.”

That took her by surprise. “Oh?” she asked, for a second feeling the anger draining away.

“Yep… and since it _is_ your birthday soon, I was thinking that probably the best gift would be a day off. You remember that writers’ cocktail party in New York that my publisher is throwing tomorrow night?”

Rapunzel did remember. The invitation had come by mail a couple of weeks ago. It was a fairly large event for its kind, with a big enough guest list that it was not necessary to RSVP. She had put aside the invitation as a near impossibility, something that her current full-time job tending to Kate could not possibly permit—though a spark of resentment had flashed in her mind when the invitation came in. She had not expected the subject to come up again. Now that he _had_ brought it up, she instantly realized what he was thinking.

_“That’s_ your idea of how to make things easier?” she exclaimed. “Go to a party in New York?”

“Rapunzel, you need to _relax_ for a bit—”

“And how will that help me relax? You’ll be at the party, having your wine and cheese, while I’m stuck feeding her, just like I always am!”

He gaped at her in amazement. “Rapunzel, it’s not like it was in the first month! You _know_ that Max and Pascal will take care of her for one night and do just fine.”

“That’s not the point!” she exclaimed.

He looked befuddled. “Then what is the point? Why can’t you go?”

She evaded the latter question. “The point is that I don’t think you understand what I go through every day, if you think the problems can be solved by a single night at a party! I spend almost my whole day tending to her. I don’t resent _her_ for it,” she added quickly, giving him the evil eye. His eyes widened as he realized what she was implying, but she continued ahead. “I know how it is with babies. But I’m only twenty-one—almost twenty-two—and this is just… it’s like I’m never going to get a break in life.”

He stared at her. “Get a _break_ in life? Are you seriously comparing your life here to growing up in that cabin, or being unemployed, or—”

“Now that you mention it, I have been away from my job for two months!” she exclaimed. “I’ll probably _never_ get to go back!”

“You don’t even _need_ to work!” he fired back at her. “We have plenty of money! You can paint whatever _you_ want, whenever you want to, rather than being told how to use your talents to make somebody _else_ money.”

Her mouth dropped open in rage. “Maybe I want to work!” she shouted. “Maybe I want to earn money myself! Of course, I shouldn’t expect _you_ to understand that, since all you do is peck at the computer all day long while _I_ cook for you and do everything for _our_ daughter!” she added spitefully.

He took two steps toward her and then stopped, glaring out at her furiously. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he snapped. “I do a lot more than you know. I get up a _lot_ of nights at three or four in the morning to feed her, because I don’t want her to wake you up!”

She paused, clearly shocked by this, and the fury rushing out of her words seemed to disappear. “Flynn—you mean—” she began to say.

But he wasn’t through. He was angry too now, and he was determined to have his say. “You think I just ‘peck at my computer,’ lost in my own little world, and not think about you except during meals and in bed? I—”

The rage she had been feeling was rushing back with every angry word he said. “Oh, that is a _lie,”_ she said, feeling a rush of adrenaline at the accusation she was daringly making. “I only _wish_ you thought about me in bed! You haven’t been doing anything except saying good night and going to sleep! Don’t you _even_ say—”

“Oh, well, that can be remedied easily,” he said, smirking. “But you want to know why I’ve been doing that? Because I’ve had the impression you were far too tired, and I didn’t want to be demanding and self-centered!”

“Oh, how _selfless_ you are,” she said with cutting sarcasm. “What a _sacrifice.”_

His mouth curled upward at one corner. “Is that all you can do now, make fun? Because your sour little fantasy that I don’t do anything, that I don’t think about you or her, just got shot down?”

Her eyes grew wide, and she fell silent, unable to respond immediately.

“I never told you what I felt… how much I worried about you, both of you, the night she was born,” he continued. “I was so afraid I would lose you both. And then the hospital workers shut me out of the room….”

“Oh, how _dare_ you!” she roared, her fury rejuvenated again at these words. _“I_ was the one who went through all that! I was the one who was in pain! Don’t you dare lay a guilt trip on me about what _you_ suffered that night!”

He stopped and regarded her with amazement. The rage that he had been feeling seemed to lift from his face, leaving behind only astonished sympathy. “I… wow. That’s what you think I’m doing? You know, this is _proof_ that you need to come with me to New York and have one night of fun… to relax and just have a nice evening. In fact,” he added, “I already told Max and Pascal about the party, just as a heads up, in case we _did_ decide to go. They’d be delighted to keep Kate for one night.”

“You did _what?_ I—you have _no_ right to make plans like that without consulting me about it!”

He laughed. “Plans, Rapunzel? What do you think, that I’m going to take her away and hand her over and then haul you off to Manhattan handcuffed and tied up in the car? I wanted to keep our choices open, so I tipped off your friends that we _might_ ask them to look over her for one night!”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said. She wasn’t even sure what she was angry about specifically, but he was apparently determined to fight, so she was too. “You made preliminary plans involving _my_ friends and _my_ daughter.”

_“Your_ daughter?” he roared back. “She’s my daughter too, or did you forget that? I see what’s really going on here,” he added darkly. “You _want_ to stay here all the time, tending to her, so you can wallow in this resentment you’ve cooked up against me for knocking you up and marrying you. But oh right, that’s half _your_ doing on both counts, isn’t it? So you have to turn me into some kind of useless dad and self-centered husband, and it pisses you _right_ off that I’m not actually that at all.”

He paused, regarding her with a dark gleam in his eye, giving the impression of a predator about to deliver a killing bite to his prey. “How long will you use _her_ as a victimization prop? You won’t hand her off even to your closest friends for a night, because that ruins the martyr script. Are you going to keep her from leaving the metro area? When will the sparkly dresses, tiaras, and fake hair make _their_ appearances?”

Rapunzel’s mouth dropped open in shock. She could hardly believe her ears. “You son of a—!” she shouted louder than either of them had shouted in the whole fight, but she was unwilling to actually finish the phrase. At this, wailing began to sound from the living room.

He seemed to regret having made the last remarks, but before he could speak, she turned on her heels and snapped, “You can just go to New York yourself if you want to so much! In fact, I hope you _do,_ because I don’t even want to see you around here!”

“Maybe I will!” he snapped back as she flounced out of the kitchen.

* * *

Rapunzel spent the rest of the evening cuddling Katherine closely and trying to stop the hot tears in her eyes from pouring down her face. Her thoughts were roiling. She felt a twinge of guilt about accusing him of being useless when he had been getting up in the middle of the night to save _her_ from waking up, and his closing assessment of her state of mind seemed uncomfortably accurate, but the guilt was quickly subsumed in a resurgence of anger at his final comments comparing her to her mother. That was utterly uncalled for, and it was a level of cruelty of which she had not wanted to believe him still capable. The last time that he had said something that vicious was that _other_ fight. The horrible fight they’d had before they had become a couple.

Rapunzel pulled her yellow blanket over her legs and tucked it around the sleeping baby she held. A chill had rippled down her body at that memory—and what had come after.

She did not budge from the couch the whole evening. When dinnertime came, she heard Flynn shuffling into the kitchen from his study and heating something up in the microwave. He ate and then went back to his study without a word.

At last the rumblings of her stomach became too much to ignore, so she picked Katherine up and carried her into the kitchen in her baby sling. She fixed a sandwich for herself and got out an apple and some milk. Then she sat down at the table and ate her simple supper in silence, hoping that her husband would not make an appearance. He didn’t. Halfway through her sandwich, she heard the shower start.

Rapunzel knew that the one-bedroom condo would one day be too small. For the present, their plan was to move the computer desks and bookcases out of the study and into their bedroom and living room, turning the study—which had a small closet that only lacked a clothes rod—into a bedroom for Katherine once she outgrew a bassinet or crib next to their own bed. When she grew older and needed more space, or whenever they wanted to add to their family, then they would contemplate moving somewhere else. However, at the moment Rapunzel _really_ wished there was another bedroom in the condo. She did not want to climb into that bed tonight.

After about another hour, the light in their room went off. She supposed that he had gone to bed. She waited a little while longer before carrying the baby into the bedroom, placing her gently in the bassinet, and grabbing up her pajamas to take into the bathroom. She emerged from the bathroom in her nightclothes, and, with a single withering glance at the king bed and the occupant resting or sleeping on his side, she left the bedroom. She would spend the night on the couch.

* * *

Early the next morning, she awoke to the sound of Katherine’s wailing. Flynn was already gone, with no note or any indication as to where he had gone. It occurred to her that he might have actually gone off to New York without her. The idea made her heart ache. She had gone to bed still feeling anger and resentment toward him, but now that he was off somewhere else and she had had the chance to sleep (she wondered briefly if Kate had woken him up the night before, as he’d said happened frequently), she felt lonely and sad.

She couldn’t figure out how the argument had gotten so out of hand. Both of them, it seemed, were stubborn, bullheaded personalities who simply could not back down from a fight until they had inflicted satisfying wounds on each other. The thought was very disturbing, and as Rapunzel strapped Katherine into the high chair and made herself a bowl of cereal for breakfast, she felt a twinge of fear pass over her. That was a tendency that, if it didn’t change, could lead to…. She couldn’t finish the thought at first.

_Oh no you don’t,_ she scolded herself. _You acknowledge it openly, by name. It could lead to—divorce. There. Now do something about it._

She knew what she _ought_ to do. She ought to call his phone number and ask what he was up to, and if he _had_ gone to New York, she ought to avail herself of her friends’ offer to babysit and go after him. But she couldn’t bring herself to do it just yet. The party would begin at nine o’clock that evening, and it was only seven in the morning. He might have just gone out for a walk in the late winter cold to clear his mind.

The morning ticked away. Katherine, mercifully, was relatively calm and undemanding today, and Rapunzel actually had the chance to curl up on the couch with the book she had meant to read the day before. However, she couldn’t get into it. She missed him, and she wished he would return. But as morning gave way to afternoon, she felt increasingly anxious that he might _have_ gone to New York. And _he_ hadn’t called _her._ He really ought to, she thought at one point. He had been the crueler one in the argument, with those cutting references to her mother’s emotional abuse. He had a gift for understanding people’s inner thoughts—it served him well in his prior career and his current one—but such pointed, personal cruelty was a terrible use to which to put it.

Maybe, she thought, he was too ashamed of those comments to face her.

She leaned back and closed her eyes. A tear trickled down her face. As hateful and unnecessary as the comparisons to her mother were, she could not help but admit that he had been completely correct about exactly what she truly resented and what she was doing, mentally, to justify that resentment to herself. She recalled how, before he had come back, she had focused on the idea of missing out on “her twenties”—on a decade of carefree, responsibility-free fun that she imagined the young women who were single without kids would all have. The idea seemed laughable now. She had not lived a carefree, responsibility-free life when she was in that position. She’d had plenty of responsibilities. She recalled the terrible month of unemployment, in which the fear (and then the reality) of being without a true home of her own had hung over her like a dark cloud. Any young person who was not well-off would have that particular fear. Those who were truly single, unpartnered—many of them, at least—would also know that they could not fall back on anyone else if that happened. No doubt there were people who lived a life of steady play and partying, but it was a myth that everyone in a different life situation from her own did nothing but have fun. She now had to recognize it as a myth.

But even if it had been true, she also had to admit that he was right. Her current life situation, her life situation for the foreseeable future, was not something he did _to her._ It was the result of a string of choices they had both made. Running from it might _technically_ be an option, she supposed, but it was a terrible one. A glance at the baby sleeping on the couch next to her put that fledgling, fragmentary idea right out of her mind. No, that wasn’t what she wanted at all.

A sigh escaped from her. She knew what had happened now. The stress of having a new baby, a baby that had been born premature to boot, had gotten to her, and in her state of stress and frustration and general tiredness, she had allowed herself to fall into simple “grass is greener elsewhere” thinking.

The proposed trip to New York _had_ been a good idea. A quick excursion was usually a good antidote for stress. She suddenly realized how fortunate she was to have good friends who were willing to babysit for her when she needed a night off—eager, in fact, from the sounds of it.

Now if only Flynn would come back from wherever he was, they could grab up what they needed and catch a train. Unless, of course, he had gone to New York by himself.

Rapunzel sighed again as something else occurred to her. It wouldn’t be as simple as that. They’d had a fight—the worst argument they’d had since before they got together. They were both proud, stubborn… and they both owed each other apologies. Even if he did come back in time, this would not be as simple as grabbing up an overnight bag, dropping Kate off with Pascal and Max, and hopping on a train as if nothing at all had happened.

She brooded over what to do, what to say, whenever he did turn up or call her. Kate continued with her nap, leaving her mother to her thoughts.

Then, around one o’clock, the front door opened, and Flynn walked in. He stopped cold as he saw her on the couch. A look of guilt and discomfort came over his face.

“I…” he trailed off, unsure of what to say.

However, another conversation with another person was flashing through her memories even as he spoke. The night before their wedding, she had asked her grandmother about this very thing, what to do if and when they had a fight again. The advice Mrs. King had given—give each other space, sleep it off if necessary, but don’t let more than a day go by before reaching out to each other—came back to her. Well, they _had_ slept apart, they had certainly given each other time to be alone, and in her case, sleeping on it had helped her to see the whole matter with clearer eyes.

Then the other piece of advice her grandmother had given her came to mind. She stood up and approached him, eyes wide. “Flynn,” she said pleadingly. She reached out her arms.

He paused for a moment before recognizing what she wanted. Then he leaned forward and enveloped her in a hug. “Rapunzel,” he murmured into her hair, squeezing her tightly.

A thrill of joy traveled over her at the sensation. “I’m sorry about yesterday,” she said quietly.

“So am I,” he said, kissing her lightly on top of the head. “I… I don’t know why I said those things.”

“I think I do,” she said, squeezing him with a kind of desperation. “We both are so, so determined to ‘win,’ or at least to not ‘lose,’ that we… sometimes forget that we’re actually inflicting hurt. It happened— _before.”_

He did not need her to elaborate on what she meant. A heavy sigh escaped him. “You’re right,” he said. “It shouldn’t happen again. That’s the second time I’ve said something like that to you… and I have felt horrible about it ever since it left my stupid mouth, just like the first time. I didn’t mean it, Rapunzel—you’re right, it _was_ just a way to upset you. I promise I’ll try to control myself better in the future.”

“I know you didn’t really mean it,” she said, pressing herself against his chest. “You were right throughout the whole argument, you know—about what I was doing, what I was thinking, and why. I realized that today. That’s the second time _that’s_ happened in an argument,” she said wryly, “and _I’ll_ try to be less defensive about what you tell me, since you have a 2-for-2 record now about things like that.”

He chuckled and squeezed her tightly. “Well, I don’t know if it’s too late now to try that little trip—”

“Oh, I hope not,” she said eagerly, glancing up at him and meeting his eyes. “I thought about that too and realized that the reason I’d become so irritated and resentful was just stress, so if it _isn’t_ too late, I’d love to try it after all.” She glanced over at Katherine. “I’ll miss her, but it’ll just be for one night. Not even a full day.”

“And she’ll be well taken care of,” Flynn added. He was smiling now, and he finally released her from his hug. “So you do want to go, then?”

She nodded, her eyes shining. “I think it’ll be good for both of us.”

“Then we’d better grab up our stuff and head to the city pretty soon,” he said with a glance at his watch.

Quickly she scampered off to the bedroom to gather up some items for a brief overnight stay. Her favorite little black dress and a pair of heels… the diamond necklace he had given her to match her diamond ring…. Then, as she opened one particular drawer, she caught sight of something that made her smirk devilishly. He _had_ made a certain promise during their argument… and with that promise in mind, she grabbed up the lavender negligee and matching panties she had bought many months ago, before their first time, and quickly shoved them into her overnight bag before he could see them. He would get to see them tonight after the party.


	13. Testimony

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is set in the summer after the epilogue of _Bad Influence_.
> 
> Warning for lots of political references and obvious authorial soapbox usage.

It was the summer after the baby’s birth, and the young family had been enjoying the pleasant days and late afternoons. Flynn had a contract with his publisher to write a young adult novel, and he would frequently take his laptop into the park and write while Rapunzel let little Kate play. It was not a rewrite of the same story that he had worked on as a teenager, but a new idea that had occurred to him over the past several months.

At home, his work was not nearly as time-intensive as the writing of _Tarnished Crown_ had been. Then, he had sat at his computer desk for hours to pore over his notes, videoconference with the publishing people, and bang out the book itself. There had been a deadline, though. The book had needed to come out while the event was still somewhat topical. _This_ book was, well, a different story.

And yet Flynn could not quite feel that Crowngate was entirely behind him. The convictions of the lobbyists and businessmen had taken place about a year and a half ago now, but the former members of Congress who had accepted the bribes—Snow and Fudge of New York State—had not yet been convicted. The court case had begun; it began a few months ago, and Flynn followed it with an almost guilty compulsion. So far, the federal prosecutors had relied upon the evidence that he had given them for the first set of trials, but he had not been summoned to court to testify. He was _sure_ that testimony against these two was part of the deal he had made back when he first came forward, and he wondered why they were waiting.

When he came back from the mailbox one morning with a very official-looking letter from the court, he was not surprised. _This is finally it,_ he thought with some relief as he read the summons. _Finally, at last, this can be buried._

* * *

Flynn knew he didn’t need to check the blogs, and for a long time, he had not done so. He had always had a poor opinion of the media, and it had not changed one iota with his entry in the world of publishing… but political blogs were somehow worse. They were not even _attempts_ at proper journalism, he thought, but rather, sociopolitical propaganda and activism disguised as news. They existed to reinforce the ideology of their target audience. Flynn already knew that his viewpoint was currently not deemed “pure” enough for its natural partisan home, and being shoved out of the circles that had an acknowledged, respected place for people like him eight years earlier also made him bitter. The idea of self-righteous grassroots types promoting ideological groupthink and making the purging problem even worse was abhorrent.

But for some irrational reason— _rather like a drug addiction,_ he thought grimly—he still started reading these things again. He started with those that tended to align with the party that used to admit people like him.

“Case proves that neither representatives nor Justice Department answers to the people”

“Corrupt government prosecutors using evidence from a slimy Washington K Street insider”

“Job creator businessmen jailed while a DC parasite walks and make$ bank. Always special treatment for cooperating with the bully state…”

“Snow was a sleazy, corrupt RINO and grifter”

“Why did it take so long to try them? Government incompetence and wastefulness”

Flynn felt his lip curl in disgust at the snippets from the blogs. It appeared that _these_ blowhards were not even on the same page about just what the supposed problem was. _But then, they have never had a consistent plan, just rabble-rousing._ He began looking at what the other side had to say about the case.

“Case demonstrates that no one answers to We the People…”

“Fudge was a friend to us who made one misjudgment (that they all make)…”

“Show trial: The establishment is making a public example of a progressive hero”

“Why we shouldn’t defend Fudge”

“Is the verdict a foregone conclusion?”

Flynn rolled his eyes. Apparently they weren’t on the same page either, given that dueling bloggers were arguing for or against the defense of “their” representative in the case. He had a chuckle about the similarity of some of _their_ populist complaints to those of their grassroots opposite number. _They’re more alike than either would dare admit,_ he thought smugly.

But at least the political blogs that he looked at did not have any headlines that immediately grabbed at him to click against his better judgment. He was accustomed to people who railed against him for his corrupt days, and it rarely raised his ire anymore for that dead horse to be beaten.

* * *

Flynn headed into a small room just off the main lobby where the condo residents’ mailboxes were set up. He got the mail out—there was a large envelope with what seemed to be a piece of cardboard inside, he noticed absently—and headed up to the top floor with it. Rapunzel was in the living room, reading a book as the baby slept. She smiled at him. He smiled back and went into his office.

For the most part, the mail was junk—the usual flyers and offers, plus a couple of letters from fans of _Tarnished Crown_ who had gotten hold of his home address. He came to the big envelope, which he noticed was marked for a lack of return address. Frowning, he carefully opened it and slid out a pair of cardboard sheets. Sandwiched between them was a full-page photograph.

Flynn sucked in his breath hard. The picture was a candid shot of him,but it was not recent. He was seated at a private room in a fancy bar, lounging sans jacket on a big leather seat with a drink in hand. Flashes of other people—a sleeve cuff and hand, the back of someone’s head—were in the background. Perched on the arm of the chair was a lithe woman with short blonde hair and not a lot of clothing. She had one hand on his shoulder, and she was grinning and winking out at the camera. He looked too drunk to notice that his picture was being taken.

Flynn instantly shoved the photograph back into the envelope and the envelope into a desk drawer. He glanced back at the office door. It was open, but Rapunzel was still in the living room. She hadn’t seen the picture. He breathed a sigh of relief.

 _When was this taken?_ he screamed in thought. _And who might have taken it?_ He closed his eyes and tried to remember this party. There had been scores of them during the five years that he had worked at the Crown Group, but this particular bar was in Washington, he recalled. The firm had rented this private room several times, always for parties with the politicians, since the Wall Street clients wanted the parties they threw to be in New York. This picture could have been taken at any of the DC events by anyone who was present. All he really knew for sure was that it could _not_ have been mailed by any of his former colleagues, because they were all currently in prison.

He wondered for half a second why it was sent before realizing that the reason was probably intimidation. _Someone_ did not want him to testify. The idea angered him, and at once he vowed that he would not let this get to him. He would not even let Rapunzel know about it, since a picture of him with a DC escort—or, perhaps, young employee of one of the politicians, since he could not recall exactly who she was—would undoubtedly upset her, and the implications of an anonymously mailed, potentially embarrassing photo would trouble her even more.

* * *

_“Anatomy of a Witch Hunt.”_

Flynn gazed upon the opinion piece, which had been written by somebody named Percival Wallace and posted in a blog that _officially_ was non-partisan but _de facto_ was very much so. Snarky and condescending in its overall tone, the piece was a full-throated defense of Fudge and a sneering, insinuating attack on anyone the author viewed as a detractor. That included not just the bloggers who were offering what the author deemed well-intentioned but misguided friendly fire, but also—and far more significantly, in the writer’s opinion—the Kings. Rapunzel’s grandparents.

 _The fact is,_ Wallace wrote, _Everard King represented a wing of the party that sought for years to stifle the progressive wing to which Rep. Fudge belonged. When they were both in the House, King and Fudge frequently locked horns. King, representing a western state, came from a more hands-off, libertarian outlook. I will not waste bytes detailing the flaws in this naïve, unrealistic, but temptingly romantic form of “classical liberalism,” but I will point out that not once was Fudge suspected of corruption until the series of bills he co-sponsored with Snow. King was in the Senate by then, focused like a laser on corruption, but the timid, “moderate” wing of the party was still applying pressure to the more forward-thinking such as Fudge. “Teaming up in a bipartisan way to ease restrictions on trading in the market!” (One need not imagine the collective DC establishment boner at the news.)_

_The fact is, Fudge made a mistake, and we should not defend that mistake. But we know that behaviors are socially conditioned and the idea of absolute “personal responsibility” is another myth treasured by that aforementioned wing of the party. Fudge made his mistake because of pressure from people like King. This is beyond dispute. And now, federal prosecutors who wouldn’t jail any Wall Streeters over the economic destruction of a few years ago, the Kings, and their very own “bipartisan” ally (and family member by marriage) have ruined a man who would have been a force for progress._

Flynn shook his head in disgust. Blogging had certainly reached a new low if guilt-by-association, a persecution complex, and vague insinuations passed as a legitimate, respectable theory. The piece even contradicted itself, he thought disgustedly. King was “focused like a laser on corruption” but implicitly had been out to get this one member of the House? “We should not defend that mistake” followed by a defense and excuse for the mistake? Flynn also had to wonder just what “mistake” Wallace even meant—accepting bribes, or co-authoring bills he didn’t like? It almost seemed to be the latter. Perhaps bribery and corruption would be perfectly okay if they involved approved sources.

Flynn glanced at the picture of the writer, a suit-clad character with a conceited expression on his weaselly hipster-bespectacled face. The face triggered a memory. He was sure he had seen this guy before. He clicked on the biographical link, but no pertinent information came out. It seemed that he was now working at the issue advocacy group that put out this blog. That meant nothing to Flynn, and the piece had annoyed him too much for him to want to continue. It was late anyway, and he could think of _much_ better ways to spend his time. He put the computer to sleep, and left the office to join Rapunzel in the bedroom.

* * *

_Two weeks later…_

Flynn wiped off his sweaty brow as he left the courtroom for the last time. Rapunzel was waiting anxiously for him. She did not look like herself, Flynn thought with some dismay. Though she could and did wear a suit when necessary, she generally didn’t look as if she were going to a funeral, dressed in black with a tiny hint of dark gray lace peeking out from her blazer jacket, her hair sprayed down in a helmet, and a dour, utterly mirthless expression on her face. It was the demeanor more than the clothing that caused the effect, Flynn thought.

“What’s the matter?” he asked as he took her arm.

“Nothing,” she said. “I just wish it would end. _Really_ end, as in the verdicts coming in.”

He ruffled her hair, messing it up a bit and making it look more like it usually did. “It will soon.” _I hope,_ he added to himself in thought.

Pascal and Max had been keeping the baby while Rapunzel was watching the end of the court session, so it took a while to retrieve their child, end the visit with their friends, and leave the main city. When they got back to the Fairfax condo building, she sat down in the living room and let Kate crawl on the floor. Meanwhile, he went into his office and pored over the assortment of photos and envelopes that had shown up in the mail over the past two weeks.

–And it was by now an assortment. Two days after the leather chair photo had come in, another picture had arrived, followed by three more in succession. All were mailed separately, and none of the envelopes contained a return address. The postmark was always the same and always from Washington, so whoever was sending them was either local—which he considered most likely—or was staying in the city for a while.

Each successive photo was more eyebrow-raising than the last. The second one showed him seated in a chair, chugging wine while a woman held the bottle and tipped it right over his mouth. The third depicted him grabbing the waist of the same blonde woman from the first photo, who was now dressed in office-type clothing. This led Flynn to think that she must have been a volunteer or intern for somebody. The fourth showed the senior partner in the Crown Group holding a small mirror in one hand and draping the heavy, woolen-suited other arm around him, as he slumped with a devastated look on his face. He looked younger in this picture than in the others, and this, he realized, was the aftermath of his first drug high. He _did_ remember _that._ It was not a pleasant memory at all, unlike his vague memories of the events where he had been photographed with girls. He felt guilty that the latter evoked anything at all in him but shame, but he _had_ enjoyed himself, and he couldn’t just rewrite that. At least it had all been before he met Rapunzel and he had no inclination to do it again.

And then there was the fifth photo. _That_ was the one that he least wanted Rapunzel to ever see. Somehow, he thought, the photographer had managed to get a shot of him with every vice shown in the previous photographs all in the same frame. It was at a New Year’s Eve party; balloons and confetti were scattered around and a banner hung overhead bearing a date from five and a half years ago. He was seated on a backless dark red leather cushion with not one, but _two_ women leaning on him. His arms were around both women at once, and his hands were grabbing at very inappropriate places. One woman held a half-empty bottle of high-priced champagne to her mouth. The other had a dusty mirror a foot or so away from his face. Unlike the other photographs, he was looking at the camera for this one, but he could easily understand why he had very little memory of it. In the photo, he was clearly drunk and high at once, glaring out with a cocky, utterly self-assured look on his face.

 _Well,_ he thought wryly as he gazed upon the photo, _I still do that._

All of the pictures, he had determined, were taken at Washington venues. The New York clients were not present in any of them. In inspecting them closely, he had recognized a couple of people who he remembered as staff for Rep. Fudge. None of the pictures contained anyone from Snow’s old office, which he supposed was not overly surprising, given that the two Congressmen were from different parties. It did narrow down the list of possible photographers, but it could not bring him any closer to determining the actual culprit. He wondered if there even _were_ records of the invitees to these parties.

If the mailer’s purpose had been intimidation, as Flynn was absolutely sure was the case, the photographs had failed, possibly even backfiring. He had grown increasingly determined to point the finger at both ex-Congressmen when he went to court.

Flynn put the photos into their drawer, closed it, and tried to focus on his novel.

* * *

Something had happened. Flynn had just stepped out to pick up a couple of groceries and check the mail—even though no new photographs had shown up after he had testified for the last time, he always did this himself now rather than risk _her_ getting an unpleasant surprise—and when he unlocked the front door to the condo and stepped into the living room, Rapunzel snapped her head up, an absolutely livid glare piercing across the room.

Instantly he feared the worst, but he had to ask. Bracing himself, he set down the bag of nonperishable items and quirked a brow at her. “What’s the matter?” he asked.

She was practically seething with anger—and, he noticed, seemed to be close to tears, though she was trying to hold that back. “You have to _ask?”_ she snarled. “This had better be an act, Flynn.” She stormed into the office—Flynn’s heart sank—and emerged with a stack of horribly familiar envelopes. She threw them down on the couch and glared at him as the corner of one of the photos slipped out. “You know what these are, I’m sure! So what is your explanation? I’m waiting.” Crossing the room, she grabbed up her old yellow blanket that was draped over the sectional couch and sat down in a chair, clutching the blanket for comfort. Tears were about to fall from her eyes, and she was breathing heavily.

She heaved a deep breath, calming her emotions a bit, and gazed up at him again. “Why did you keep these things in your top drawer, right on top of everything else, where you could easily pull them out and look at them?” She scowled. “Nostalgia for the old days, before you had a wife and kid to tie you down?” she asked sarcastically.

“No! I didn’t even _keep_ them at all.”

“Obviously you kept them, since they’re here,” she said tartly.

“I didn’t keep them for three to eight years. Look at the postmarks! They came recently.”

“Who sent them, then, and why? Because you asked for them?”

“No, I did _not_ ask for them, and I honestly don’t _know_ who sent them.”

She glared. “So you acted like—like _that_ —so often that you really don’t _know_ who saw it?”

He felt defensive at this. “Rapunzel, honestly, what did you expect? I was trying to _pick you up_ the night I met you, and you knew perfectly well how I acted _before_ I met you.”

She sucked in her breath hard and let it out fast, trying to calm down but not succeeding. “I did not expect there to be photographs of it. I can’t unsee those images, Flynn.”

“Okay, fair enough, but none of those pictures are more than PG-13.”

“They are pictures of _my husband_ with other women all over him, and drugs, and alcohol, at a bunch of wild parties! I didn’t want to see that!”

“I didn’t either!” he exclaimed. “I didn’t want to be reminded of it! These things started showing up in the mail right when it was announced that I was going to testify in court.”

“But Flynn…” Her lower lip trembled. “It’s not just the content. I _did_ know, even though I didn’t think of it. It’s the lying too.”

“I didn’t lie—”

“You hid them. You didn’t tell me somebody was mailing them.”

“I hid them _because_ I didn’t want you to see them, but I kept them around as evidence.”

“Evidence. So if you think there is a crime, why not get the cops involved?”

“There’s no crime,” he said. “They are pictures of me, and these are public venues. Whoever took them was also present. They were mailed to my address without comment. No crime. But I _do_ want to try to figure out who is sending them. I think whoever it was sent them to intimidate me into not accusing the ex-Congressmen. Somebody who didn’t want me to testify and maybe wants me to worry that they’re holding on to something even more lurid that they might post online.”

“Is that a possibility?” she asked evenly, eyebrows narrowed.

He stared back. “I bloody well hope not. I did have _some_ self-respect and dignity, and I never did anything _more_ than ‘PG-13’ in public. You’re not going to see any deleted tweets of my junk turn up, for example,” he said.

“Well, I _hope_ you would have been smarter and classier than _that,”_ she blurted out in spite of herself. A grin formed on her face.

He smirked, but it didn’t last. “Unfortunately, it _is_ possible there are more candid shots of me drunk or high that I didn’t know were taken.” He closed his eyes and grimaced. “I just hope they don’t surface online now in retaliation.”

She moved forward and pressed lightly, hesitantly against him. He wrapped his arms around her and felt hers encircle his waist. “I’m sorry you saw them,” he said gently. “I really am.”

“It’s all right,” she said in a small voice. “I understand now that it’s not what I thought.” She hugged him again. “It has been tough to see all the ugly commentary about the case… to read the stuff that’s been put up about you, and about my grandfather. There was this one piece a couple of weeks ago that made the _worst_ insinuations about him.”

“You read that too?” he said, dismayed. “‘Anatomy of a Witch Hunt’?”

“I think that was its title, yeah.” She gazed at him with those wide eyes. “I’ve learned that it’s not just ‘your’ old crowd that is capable of corruption. These people are just the same, if not worse, and they don’t even act courteous.”

“That is absolutely true,” he agreed. “And that article was horrendous.”

“I assume it was probably somebody like that who sent the pictures.”

“That’s pretty much what I think too. They were all taken in DC, and the Wall Street people were never there. They also don’t contain anyone who was associated with Snow. I think it just about had to be one of Fudge’s old people.” He squeezed her. “I’m just glad they haven’t gone after _you._ You aren’t guilty of anything, even the apparent ‘crime’ of being a Washington fixture. I hope it means that they at least have _that_ modicum of decency.”

* * *

_A few days later…_

“Look at this!” Flynn roared, pointing at the article on his screen. “Just look at it!”

Warily Rapunzel edged over to his desk and peered at the screen. The article, posted in the same blog as the last piece, was titled “Taken for a Ride?” and subtitled “When is a whistle-blower… not?” She instantly realized that the title was meant to be a snarky play on Flynn’s name and prepared herself to get angry.

Flynn got up, heaving breaths. “I need a drink,” he said. He stormed out of the office.

Rapunzel sat down in his chair and began to read the article. The author, she noticed, was Percival Wallace again. It was, as she had expected, a smear job against Flynn, bringing up the same skepticism about his motivations that had surfaced— _unfortunately,_ she thought unhappily, _even in Max’s mind, and my own as well when I first met him_ —when he came forward to spill about what his former firm had been doing. She could readily understand why it made him angry, but it did not explain why he had been _that_ angry—

_And yet, despite the myriad of reasons to be suspicious of Rider’s motives, he actually enlisted former Senator King and his family on his side. For a DC insider admittedly guilty of corruption—the very issue that Rider’s new patron crusaded against while in office—to have enlisted such an ally is quite a coup. The fact that King was arguably driven from office by health problems stemming from the Crowngate case further perplexes. Rider is partially responsible for the end of King’s career, and this fact cannot be lost on the former Senator—but evidently, it has been counteracted by other facts._

Rapunzel felt her blood pressure rising as she read this paragraph. Things started to make a bit more sense now….

 _As we now know, in a stunt equal to any tawdry plot twist on “House of Cards,” Rider knocked up the Senator’s long-lost granddaughter so that he could insinuate himself into King’s family. And yes, let’s dispense with the naïve idea that Rider did not know who she was. Whether_ she _knew or not, her parentage was not exactly some dark secret to be uncovered only in a DNA test, but public record for anyone who thought to look. This is a brilliant, eminently professional, scheming K Streeter, let’s remember. I have anonymous sources that verify his presence at high-rolling DC parties with alcohol flowing and the proverbial “hookers and blow,” attesting that he would hardly have been a virgin lad straight out of the Smoky Mountains with no clue how to use a condom. So why didn’t such a careful planner practice safe sex with his then-girlfriend? DC’s newly anointed Millennial power couple have acknowledged a plane trip to the Alaska gravesite of Mrs. Forrest-Rider’s parents. Might he not have done his research after that and decided that this was a catch too good to let go?_

_Of course, by accepting this theory, we also must accept the implied consequences—namely, that his in-laws are now fully aware and accepting for reasons of their own. This is easier to believe than it ought to be. As I have written before, King had a long record of being against Rep. Fudge during their days in the House, and it is perfectly comprehensible that, after believing that he had no living descendants, the old lion would happily look to a newly discovered grandson-in-law to carry on the legacy. (A prediction: Rider will change his party affiliation and run for office in Virginia’s 11 th District, with the full backing of the King machine.)_

_If this is accurate, then Rider’s young wife is to be deeply pitied. One cannot help but wonder if her choice would have been different if she’d had access to women’s health services and any form of health insurance other than the beneficence of a millionaire boyfriend. However, this is sadly often the case with political wives, used as trophies, photo-ops, and connections by patriarchal, hyper-privileged men. Should we really hold up as heroes a person and a family capable of such manipulation? The aforementioned TV show is fiction… isn’t it?_

_“What?”_ Rapunzel shouted, storming up. Her blood was pounding in her head. She whirled around and found herself facing Flynn, who stood in the doorway drinking Chambord on ice.

“You got there, I take it?” he bit off.

“Oh, I got there, all right! What is _wrong_ with this person?” she roared. “How did this even get published? This is the nastiest, most personally insulting pile of speculative crap I have seen in ages! And I guess he’s implying he thinks I shouldn’t have had the baby? I know this is an opinion blog, but is _nothing_ off-limits?”

“For people like this, nope.” He glared at the computer. “They clearly have _no_ decency.”

“This is libel, isn’t it?” Rapunzel exclaimed. “This idiot accusing you of—well, you saw it.”

“I’m a public figure.” He went over to the computer and sat down, putting his drink on a coaster on the desk. “But no, obviously, nothing at _all_ is off-limits to these people. ‘The personal is political,’ they say—and by that they mean that every damn thing you do, every product you buy, every food you eat, every decision you make, has to be made with regard to whether it benefits the ‘cause.’ That’s how these people _think._ So of _course_ for somebody like that, it couldn’t possibly just be that I fell in love with you and we got carried away like people often do.” He breathed heavily and sipped his liqueur.

“I hope he isn’t in a relationship, since that’s how he sees it. That says a lot more about this guy than about you.”

“It sure does,” he agreed.

She stared at the article for another moment. “Oh,” she said sardonically, “oh yeah, I guess this punk is convinced that you want to run for the House—”

“Not a snowball’s chance in hell,” he said, but a smirk was forming on his face. “I didn’t even have _that_ interest at the height of it all. That actually would have made me laugh—if not for the rest of the piece.”

She scowled. “Who is this guy anyway?” She sat down at the desk again and clicked on the biography. She scanned it for a moment. “Oh, well, that does explain it.”

“What explains it?” Flynn moved over to the desk. “The last article this douche wrote didn’t have much of a bio… _oh.”_

 _“Percival Wallace is also a former speechwriter for Rep. Fudge,”_ the biography now said.

The same thought seemed to occur to both of them at once. They snapped their heads up and met each other’s eyes. “Do you think _he_ could have sent them?” Rapunzel asked breathlessly. She gazed at the article again. “I mean, look at this—‘high-rolling DC parties’—and the, um, type of stuff that’s in the pictures. He claims it’s anonymous sources, but that might just mean himself.”

“Yep, it definitely could be.” He looked at the screen as well. “Either him or someone else from that office that he’s in close cahoots with.” He looked again. “You know, I have had a _wicked_ idea. His e-mail address is right there. I may just invite the punk to coffee for a talk.”

Rapunzel smothered a grin. “Oh, Flynn, don’t threaten him. A guy like that would—”

“I don’t intend to threaten anyone! Intimidate, though, that’s another matter.” He smirked. “The photos were mailed anonymously. It wouldn’t take too much to intimidate a coward.”

* * *

In the end, both Rapunzel and Flynn decided to join Percival Wallace for coffee, because in his rather pretentious and defensive reply e-mail, the writer insisted on having the meeting with his colleague, Marguerite Scrivner, who had been the Congressman’s social media director. Flynn _definitely_ remembered who that was, and the memories were not fond ones. An acid-tongued blonde-from-a-bottle who, at the time, had an omnipresent BlackBerry (and now, Flynn guessed, probably always carried a tablet), “Rita” Scrivner had to have been included to raise the stakes.

They had wrangled about the venue. In his initial e-mail, Flynn had invited Wallace not to a casual coffee, but to a formal lunch in a posh downtown DC restaurant. He had a pretty good guess that Wallace would balk at the idea of patronizing an expensive restaurant known to cater to the “one percenter” crowd, and he was correct. After Flynn turned down Wallace’s counter-suggestion of an organic fair trade coffee shop in Eastern Market with occasional live folk guitar, they settled on the very place Flynn had intended from the start, the coffee shop a block or two off K Street where he had spent some mornings last year waiting for Rapunzel to leave work. Its clientele was the serious professional set. Flynn was pleased, both because he had gotten what he wanted and because he knew that Wallace was likely dissatisfied.

On the appointed day, all three members of the family ended up going. Flynn had been concerned that Rapunzel would find a six-month-old baby to be troublesome, but she was used to it. “Besides,” she said in a fierce tone as she strapped Kate into her stroller, “I want that smarmy punk to take a good look at her after what he said.”

They carefully pulled into a parking garage nearby, got out, and walked the short walk to the coffee shop. It was tucked into part of the lowest level of an office building. When they went inside, they quickly got their coffees and scanned the subtly lit, classy shop for their guests.

It did not take long to find them. Both Wallace and Scrivner stuck out like a pair of sore thumbs, between the matching heavy glasses they wore and the distinct expressions on their faces that were a mix of derision for everyone around them and vague guilt about being in this place. Scrivner, Flynn noticed, _did_ have a tablet, as he did himself.

Rapunzel and Flynn sat down at the table, greeted the pair, sipped their coffees, and regarded their companions with satisfaction. Wallace was staring at his beverage as if he expected something to jump out of it and attack him. Scrivner was sipping hers tentatively.

“It’s not poison, you know,” Flynn said. “I’m not sure if it’s sustainably farmed or not, but you’ve already bought it now.”

Wallace glared, but he did sip the beverage. “Well,” he said, setting the cup down on the table, “what exactly did you want to discuss? I assume you’re unhappy with my reporting and think you’re entitled to pressure me into retracting.”

“What you did isn’t ‘reporting,’” Flynn growled. “What you did is shilling for your former boss and making up speculative crap about the motives of everyone who you think brought him down.”

Wallace sneered. “What do you dispute, _precisely?”_

“Hmm, let me see,” Flynn said sarcastically. “I could start with the claim that I knew about Rapunzel’s background and deliberately knocked her up to get into her family. Or I could bring up the baseless allegations that her grandfather was out to get your old boss because of a difference in political philosophy and an intra-party struggle. But actually, I think the worst of all was the insinuation directed at _her,_ a person who didn’t even have anything to _do_ with the case—the insinuation that she might have wanted to get rid of the baby but I forced her to carry it by holding the purse strings.” He glared and leaned across the table menacingly. “I would _like_ to believe that you felt a particle of shame after writing that, but I doubt it. Now’s your chance to prove me wrong, though. Here she is, and Kate is in her lap. You gonna defend that comment to her face?”

Wallace and Scrivner did, for a fraction of a second, look uncomfortable about that memory, but it did not last long. Wallace instantly took on a defensive visage as he peered back at Flynn. “I think that it _was_ a perfectly defensible thing to throw out as a possibility,” he said superciliously. “She was literally _just_ out of college, twenty-one years old, from a troubled home, no insurance, and wholly dependent on you for basic needs.”

Flynn stared at the bespectacled writer in astonishment for a second. “Wow,” he said, blinking. “You actually _did._ Do you not understand that you _don’t_ extrapolate from general cases—or what your narrative _tells_ you is a general case—to individual situations? Do you truly not get that?” He shook his head.

“How can you look at people this way?” Rapunzel asked. “How can you look at a person and only think of the categories they fall into?” She sighed sadly and sipped her coffee.

Flynn spoke up again before Wallace or Scrivner could comment. “We’ve heard all we need to, and since you clearly won’t acknowledge—or can’t see—that any of it was out of line, I want a one-time guest column to tell my point of view. An _unedited_ column,” he added pointedly.

“You know, I could actually do that… it isn’t uncommon… but I’m not sure I want to commit to an unedited column without knowing what you would write,” Wallace said pompously.

Flynn rolled his eyes. “Get over yourself. I mean either post as-is or post nothing at all. And I’ve already told you what I would want to correct: your allegations about my relationship with her and your conspiracy theory about her grandfather and your old boss.” He paused for a second. “I wouldn’t mention the photographs you sent; don’t worry about that.”

Wallace and Scrivner both choked and started coughing. Flynn sat back in his chair, gazing smugly upon them as they cleared their throats.

Scrivner was the first one to become able to speak again. Her face now red from either embarrassment or partial asphyxiation, she stared across the table at Flynn. “I sent them, actually.”

“Oh? I suppose that makes sense. You took them too, then?”

“Of course.”

“I’m only surprised that you didn’t leak them to the Internet. Why didn’t you?”

“That would not have furthered the purpose.”

“He knew about them too, no doubt,” Rapunzel put in.

“Does it matter?” Wallace replied testily.

“Well, Flynn and I believe that it does matter whether a person actually did something if they’re accused.”

“All right, I knew,” Wallace snapped. “Is there a point to bringing this up?”

“Just to let you know that we figured it out,” Flynn said with a shrug. “And that if it was meant to intimidate me into tempering what I said on the stand, it didn’t work. Your old boss is going down.”

Wallace and Scrivner both scowled. “Smug about that, aren’t you, Rider?” Wallace said sourly. “Makes you real happy?”

“I’m pretty happy in general these days, yes,” he replied. “I’m happy that my own hands are washed of it. I’m happy I’m not involved anymore. I’m happy that at least a couple of elected officials got caught.”

“It was like my article said, a witch hunt!” Wallace exclaimed angrily. “King’s side of the party applied pressure to Fudge and those like him, and he caved. Then they played gotcha. He never took anything from lobbyists before that.”

“You are either lying or embarrassingly ignorant,” Flynn said triumphantly. Rapunzel glanced at him and smiled. He had told her before they left that he had researched reported meetings and expenditures revolving around the ex-Congressman, and he had a revelation to make that he _hoped_ would shake up the pair of “smug jerks”—if he had the chance to make it. This must be it.

Flynn smiled back at her and winked quickly before continuing. He opened up his tablet cover and pulled up a file. “Your old boss had, according to my records, _dozens_ of meetings with representatives from the _very_ advocacy group you two currently work for. This includes…”—Flynn scrolled down the document—“ _quite_ a few downtown lunches and dinners.”

“That’s the grassroots—”

“It’s something of value, and the issues and messaging are influenced by the people who donate. It is _lobbying._ And interestingly, soon after many of these meetings, he wrote up some sort of pet-issue catchphrase-laden bill that would go absolutely nowhere, but served him _and_ your current employer _very_ well in racking up donations from suckers.”

Wallace and Scrivner were gripping the edge of the table with stony expressions on their faces. Finally Wallace responded.

“It’s not the groups’ fault if the system is currently rigged against any consideration of bills like the ones you’re talking about,” he said tightly.

Flynn smiled wryly and shook his head. “Keep on believing that victimhood story, Wallace. It absolves your movement of its failings.” He finished his coffee and glanced over at Rapunzel. She had ordered a smaller cup and was already finished with hers, and she was feeding Kate with a bottle. He pushed his chair back and stood up. “I don’t pretend to be perfect… and there is a reason I’m never going back to corporate lobbying. If I ever make a return, it _will_ be issue advocacy of some sort… but I know not to go the dishonest, hypocritical route that your crowd has. Though at this point, I am not sure if you even _realize_ what you do. It wouldn’t hurt to open your minds a bit.” He stood up with Rapunzel and pushed her chair up to the table, a gesture that seemed to raise the hackles of Scrivner and Wallace. Flynn and Rapunzel ignored it.

“Oh, one last thing,” he said as they turned to leave. “Don’t worry about the guest column. I don’t want to be printed in your group’s online rag after all, and I have contacts elsewhere.”

* * *

Back home, Rapunzel put Kate in her crib for an afternoon nap, and they slumped on the couch. He threw an arm around her shoulders and heaved a sigh.

“That was depressing,” he muttered.

“Yeah,” she agreed. She sighed along with him. “One thing stuck in my mind, though. This is the second time, I believe, that you’ve said you might go back to that work.”

“Second?”

“Yeah, you said it at Christmas too.”

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “Well, what can I say? I don’t want to close that door. The problem wasn’t with the line of work itself, but the way that I did it.”

“Yeah,” she said in agreement. They lapsed into silence for a while before she spoke again. “Did you mean what you said about publishing a rebuttal in another venue?”

“I did. I can think of a couple of possibilities… and they have a much bigger audience.” He shook his head. “I never thought I would have to rebut personal attacks like _that,_ or I would’ve done it in the book. But this is it. The trials are over, and I think finally it can be put to rest.”

She smiled at him and cuddled closer. “It really is a good feeling.”

He smiled back and kissed her lightly on top of the head. “It certainly is.”


	14. Cabin Fever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Tis the season.
> 
> Something like this actually happened to me once.

**Day T Minus One, December 23.**

Rapunzel stripped off the party dress she was wearing, taking care not to tear the shimmery green skirt or black rayon top. She watched out the corner of her eye as Flynn took off his suit piece by piece and gritted her teeth. There was a certain elegance to the way _he_ got out of his clothes, whereas with her, it seemed sloppy and uncouth no matter how hard she tried. It wasn’t fair. _She_ was the woman; she should be the one who could pull it off. –At least, that was what the stereotype claimed. She supposed, resignedly, that it wasn’t as if asinine pseudoscientific notions of “how men and women are” usually applied to _either_ of them….

Sighing, she hung up the dress and closed the door to her closet. Just across the room, he was taking out a pair of dark blue jeans, an everyday white shirt, and his brown leather aviator-style jacket. She loved that jacket on him and would have admired him for a while, but they had to be somewhere soon. She walked over to the bed, picked up the warm outfit that she had folded and laid out there, and began to put it on. Her gaze happened to catch the clock on the nightstand and she sighed again.

“Flynn,” she said, slipping on the heavy winter white sweater, “was it _really_ the best idea to take the red-eye?”

He pulled his arms through the leather jacket sleeves. “The other option was to get up at five in the morning to catch the early flight,” he replied. “Everything else was booked.”

She grumbled to herself under her breath. It was still annoying, and there were times when she simply could not understand how he functioned on such a busy schedule. She was pretty driven and determined herself, but he absolutely put her to shame. They had been at a party until nine o’clock, and the flight was going to leave at eleven. Even after gaining two hours from time zone changes, they would arrive in the Denver airport at a truly ridiculous time. And then they would have to drive up that winding, twisting mountain road in darkness….

_Well,_ she thought to herself, _it does make more sense that they would want to celebrate Christmas in that chalet. It’s so much more picturesque and private than the house in the city._

That much was true. Rapunzel’s grandparents’ vacation house, where she and Flynn had spent their honeymoon, was sure to be beautiful at this time of year. She could not blame them for wanting to see her and Flynn for the holidays, especially since they only learned of her existence over the summer, and it made more sense for the pair of them to fly out west rather than for the grandparents to fly to DC and stay in a hotel over Christmas. Besides, if they _didn’t_ go to visit the Kings, they would be spending the holiday alone. Pascal was going to stay with Max’s family.

Flynn grabbed the handle of his large rolling suitcase—which contained Christmas presents for his wife and in-laws—and picked up his black leather messenger bag (the old brown one, the one that had for years held the only record of his adolescent writing, was too emotionally significant to actually _use_ ). Rapunzel followed suit, picking up her purse and smiling at him as he walked over to where she was. They left the condo together, making sure to lock it carefully behind them, and went to the parking garage where Flynn’s car was parked. The cold air hit them like a punch to the face as they went into the drafty garage. Rapunzel shivered, hurrying to the car and getting in very quickly. He got in next to her, and soon they were on their way to the airport.

* * *

“You’re sure about this?” Flynn asked anxiously, the blisteringly cold mountain air penetrating his jacket as he stood in the Mile-High City before the Kings. Mrs. King, it seemed, was going to drive the vehicle up the mountain, rather than the couple’s driver and former chief of staff.

“I’m quite sure. He has family of his own, and I know perfectly well how to drive up that mountain,” Mrs. King said. She was dressed in a long down-filled coat with a faux fur-lined hood. It was all she could do to not laugh at Flynn’s choice of clothing, and she had to acknowledge a little amusement about seeing him shivering like he was. “The SUV has four-wheel drive. I’ve driven it up that road many times.”

“But it’s _so_ late,” he said. As if to emphasize his point, he accidentally yawned.

The Kings chuckled. “Yes, but it is later for you,” Mrs. King pointed out, “since you are used to Eastern time. I’m perfectly alert.”

“Grandma is a night owl,” Rapunzel remarked, shivering in her own dark gray fleece wrap-style coat, trying to keep the large flaps of fabric from blowing in the wind. “Come on, Flynn. Let’s just get in the car. I’m cold.” She took his hand, opened the door to the SUV, and pulled him in behind her.

The Kings sat in the front seats, and Mrs. King started the vehicle. It was a good hour’s drive to the mountain, and Flynn and Rapunzel were soon nodding off. Half-asleep, they curled up together on the seat. Flynn’s arm found its way around Rapunzel’s small form, and his hand rested protectively on her burgeoning belly.

Mr. King glanced behind his seat and smiled at the sight. Before the discoveries of this year, he never would have thought he would like Flynn Rider, whom he had thought of as a mercenary, virtually amoral young man who cared only about saving himself when he turned in the rest of his former lobbying firm to the federal government. Either Mr. King had been very mistaken in his true character, or his character had changed—or, he supposed, most likely a combination of both, because he now approved highly of how Rider treated his granddaughter, and he enjoyed the young man’s wit and intelligence.

Before long, they reached the mountain. Mrs. King turned onto the winding road and began the slow, careful drive. Soon they were four thousand feet up, pulling into the short driveway of the pretty chalet that overlooked a wide valley. It was a three-level house, with the garage and mud room on the lowest level, most living spaces on the next floor (which had another door that led directly outside and one that opened to a porch), and bedrooms on the uppermost floor.

“Wake up, you two,” Mrs. King said, nudging Rapunzel and Flynn as she turned off the car. “We’re here.”

Yawns met this announcement, but soon the entire family was safely nestled into the house. They all trudged upstairs, hauling heavy suitcases behind them. The big living room had a vaulted ceiling and high, two-story glass paned windows that provided a panoramic view of the south. There was also a long porch that extended the length of the house and a door that opened to it from the living room. The second “main” level—the floor with the bedrooms—had a wide balcony for the hall, which overlooked the living room. Off the balcony/hall were the bedrooms and bathrooms. Flynn and Rapunzel fumbled their way down the hall, taking the bedroom on the west side of the house, which they had used for their honeymoon. The Kings headed to the room on the east side. Both bedrooms had a set of tall windows, floor to ceiling, that offered picturesque views of the valley, as well as luxury bathrooms with another set of such windows in front of a hot tub. Flynn and Rapunzel were sure that they would use the hot tub at some point, but not tonight. It was almost three o’clock in the morning, and by this time, _everyone_ was ready to get some sleep.

No one was awake when the snow started softly falling.

* * *

**Day One, December 24.**

The snow cover was about five inches thick, as they discovered the next morning. Rapunzel was enchanted. She had plenty of memories of snow-covered ground on a mountain, but there was something much cozier about it now. Perhaps it had to do with the fact that Mother never allowed her to play in it, always insisting that she would catch her death of cold. Rapunzel had mutinously thought that perhaps the risk wouldn’t be _quite_ as great if Mother hadn’t shaved off all her hair… but she quickly banished such unpleasant memories. She and Flynn had already been out once to admire it, and they intended to go out again once breakfast was over.

“Aren’t you glad we took the red-eye?” Flynn teased her over coffee. “We might have had trouble getting up the mountain if we’d taken the early morning flight.”

Mrs. King popped a strudel bite into her mouth. “Oh, the SUV could handle this,” she said after finishing the bit of food. “It’s outfitted for snow.”

“But I would have been wide awake, and I wouldn’t have wanted to go up that road in these conditions. I was dozing last night and wasn’t aware, so I couldn’t say anything about it.”

“Backseat driver, are you?” Mr. King remarked. He turned to his granddaughter. “Rapunzel, is that how he normally is?”

“I couldn’t say,” Rapunzel said. “He’s always the one who drives. I don’t know how.”

“Thanks for that spirited defense of me,” Flynn said in a faux hurt tone.

“You’re welcome.” She smirked across the table.

Shortly afterward, Flynn headed up to their bedroom to finally unpack his suitcase. He arranged his clothes in the closet and toiletries in the bathroom, keeping the Christmas presents stowed in the suitcase for now. Then he put on a different coat, a long black woolen one.

“Good idea,” Rapunzel said, reaching for the same gray fleece thing she had worn last night. She hadn’t brought a warmer coat. She tried to compensate by putting on a warm winter hat, gloves, and scarf, but she knew that she wouldn’t want to stay outside in this for too long. It probably wouldn’t be safe either, she thought. The temperature outside was quite a bit below freezing, and she was about six months along.

Flynn watched her put on the wrap and smiled to himself. She would definitely appreciate his gift.

* * *

That night, Flynn and Rapunzel holed up in private areas of the house as they wrapped their gifts for each other and the Kings. The Kings had gone to the house before their arrival and set up a Christmas tree in the open-ceiling living room, and it glittered with a color scheme of red, green, blue, gold, and silver. Flynn emerged from his spot, the side of the bed opposite the bathroom door (Rapunzel was wrapping gifts in the bathroom), and carried his boxes downstairs.

As he set them down under the tree, he heard a soft pattering outside the two-story windows. He glanced up. Was it more snow? He went over to the window and peered outside. It was difficult to see, so he turned on an outside light.

Rather than snow, it was sleet. Flynn frowned. He would have preferred snow, all things considered. It wasn’t that sleet was any more problematic to drive in—the _real_ problem was freezing rain and melted, refrozen layers of snow—but the probable implications of sleet were troublesome. It meant that the temperature the following day would probably warm up above freezing, and _that_ meant that some of the snow (or sleet) might in fact melt and then refreeze, just as he didn’t want to happen.

_Well,_ he thought stoically, _there’s nothing anyone can do about it, and it’s Christmas Eve. Might as well not worry about it._

* * *

**Day Two, December 25.**

Rapunzel squealed in delight as she tore open the wrapping of Flynn’s largest gift for her. A royal purple wool coat lay in the box. She lifted it up, gazing admiringly at it. “This is just what I need,” she exulted. “A nice coat that will also keep me warm.”

“There’s more,” Flynn said, handing her the next gift, a much smaller one.

Rapunzel opened the box. Inside was a small jewelry-type box, which she opened to reveal a stunning diamond pendant necklace in white gold. She gasped.

“It matches your ring,” he said with a smile.

Rapunzel glanced down at the engagement ring that she continued to wear even though they were married. This necklace did match it, though the diamond in the pendant was teardrop-shaped and a bit larger than the ring solitaire. What this must have cost….

_But no,_ she reminded herself as he helped her fasten the necklace, _that isn’t an issue for him._

He drew away from her, gazing at her with that tender smile still on his face. That was too much for her. She threw herself upon him, wrapping her arms around his neck as she hugged him. He squeezed her back before they released each other.

“Now it’s your turn,” she said. She passed him one of her gifts. “I had no idea what to get a person who has everything.”

He chuckled. “I suppose that’s been true for the past six months,” he said, alluding to the time when they officially became a couple. He opened the present. It was a book—but his eyes widened in shock as he realized what book it was.

“Rapunzel, I—” He was at an utter loss for words.

She merely smiled back. “Open it.”

He began flipping through the one-of-a-kind illustrated edition of _Vigilante Rider,_ the dystopian epic of his namesake that he had written as a teenager _._ After a brief period when he had thought about reworking it, he had changed his mind and decided to pursue a new story idea instead. But at some point completely unbeknownst to him, Rapunzel had read this, made color illustrations of important scenes, and had taken it to a printing store to have a custom printing and binding done. The characters in the illustrations—the rebel vigilante and his love interest, an informant-turned-open-rebel (who he noticed had been renamed to _her_ name)—looked like the two of them, just with rugged outfits and futuristic wartime gear. He set the book down, winded.

“Do you like it?” she asked. “I know what you said a couple of months ago, but I thought that something should still be done with it… since it was such a big part of your teenage years.”

“I cannot believe you spent this much time on it,” he said, still in shock, both at the amount of effort and the fact that he’d had no clue, not even the faintest hint, that she was doing it. “It’s _amazing._ That… completely blows away everything I’ve given you.”

“No it doesn’t,” she said, scooting next to him. “The saying goes that ‘it’s the thought that counts,’ right? That applies to homemade things too. I don’t think the amount of time spent on a gift matters any more than the amount of money, if it really is the thought that counts. Sometimes people can find something to buy that’s just perfect, and you did.”

He managed a smile at that. “I suppose that makes sense. Still… this is something, Rapunzel. This is really special.” He hugged her again.

_Snap!_ A camera flash illuminated the room, surprising Rapunzel and Flynn. They broke apart and turned around at once to face the photographer, Mrs. King, who was standing side by side with her husband and beaming at the scene before her.

“You two are adorable,” she said, putting down the camera.

“Well, look at this!” Flynn exclaimed, holding up the custom book. “Can you blame me for wanting to hug her? It’s incredible!”

“It is quite impressive,” Mr. King agreed. “Rapunzel is right, though—your gifts are excellent too.”

“Is that all that the two of you want to open at the moment?” Mrs. King asked.

Flynn and Rapunzel exchanged looks and nodded. They had all agreed to spread out the gift-giving part of the holiday, opening one or two items in the morning and the rest after Christmas dinner.

“Well, let’s have some brunch, then,” Mrs. King said. “I have several flavors of hot chocolate, frappé, and cappuccino here, and _yes_ Flynn, black coffee as well—”

“Just because I don’t like to drink sugary milk syrup with whipped cream, sprinkles, and a dusting of _more_ sugar on top, it doesn’t mean I only drink black coffee,” Flynn objected. “I think dark chocolate flavor is _perfectly_ acceptable for hot chocolate.” He stood up, pulling Rapunzel up with him. “Besides, coffee is for _working_ days. In DC.”

“Whatever you say, Flynn,” Mrs. King said with a grin. “I won’t dare try to fix it for you, though.”

“That’s quite all right. I’d rather do it myself anyway.” He went into the kitchen, opened the cabinet, and took down a box of semi-sweet hot chocolate mix.

Rapunzel shook her head in amusement as she walked over to her grandparents. “Look,” she said, holding up the new necklace. “Isn’t this beautiful?”

“It is,” Mr. King agreed. “The coat is quite nice too. He has taste.”

“I should say,” Flynn called across the kitchen as he fixed his cocoa.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Mr. King teased.

Flynn stirred his cocoa, his back turned to them. As Mr. King finished speaking, he stiffened.

“It was just a joke,” Mr. King said at once.

“No, it’s not that,” Flynn said. “Look.” He pointed out the nearest window.

The other three members of the family gathered around it, their breath fogging up the glass. “I don’t get it,” Rapunzel said. “It looks like rain to me.”

“I _hope_ that’s all it is,” Flynn said. “What’s the temperature? Anyone know?”

“There’s a thermometer out there,” Mrs. King said. “I think it’s accurate.”

Without a word, Flynn set down his cocoa, stalked into the living room, opened the door that led to the porch, and went outside.

The others looked at each other. “What’s this about?” Mr. King asked.

“I think he’s worried about ice,” Rapunzel explained. “You remember yesterday when he was worried that the SUV couldn’t drive in the snow.”

Flynn came back in. “If the thermometer _is_ accurate, it’s a degree above freezing,” he said. “So yes—rain. For now, at least,” he added in a low mutter.

“It’ll probably just turn to snow later,” Mrs. King said with a shrug. “Come on, Flynn, have your cocoa. Let’s get a fire going, put on a fun movie, and enjoy Christmas.”

* * *

**Day Three, December 26.**

“Well, that’ll do it.” Flynn glared out the kitchen window as if the world outside had personally attacked him.

A crystalline coating of a quarter inch of ice encased virtually every branch, leaf, rock, and even the house itself. The cold rain of the previous day had turned to freezing rain before reverting back to sleet, and the melted snow had refrozen overnight. As Flynn had said, “that’ll do it”—make the mountain road undrivable. What would be hazardous enough for a flat, straight road was a death wish on a sloping, curving one that ascended four thousand feet.

“The flight doesn’t leave until two days from now,” Rapunzel pointed out. “And we still have power. There’s no need to freak out. It’s kind of pretty. Very picturesque.”

Flynn softened a bit, as he often did whenever her artist’s eye saw something that he couldn’t immediately see. “All right,” he said. “You want to go outside? Wear that new coat, perhaps?”

“Sure,” she said, finishing her hot cappuccino. “There’s still snow underneath.”

They headed up to their bedroom to put on their coats and gloves. When they came out, they were joined by the Kings at the end of the hallway, who were also dressed for the outdoors. The four of them went down the stairs and through the door that led directly outside.

“Watch out,” Flynn said. He took the guardrail in one hand and grabbed Rapunzel around the waist with the other. The steps were icy. However, no one fell, and as soon as they were on hard ground, their boots crunched through the top layer of ice, finding traction in the snow underneath.

Rapunzel darted away from Flynn, bent down, and scooped up a handful of snow. She immediately began shaping it into a ball. His eyes widened at the sight, and he began to arm himself at once.

“Mutually Assured Destruction, Rapunzel,” he called out. She glanced up and saw him licking down a large snowball.

“You wouldn’t dare.” She put a hand over her stomach, on which the buttoned coat only _just_ fit, and glared defiantly at him.

He scooped up another layer of snow and patted it on, creating an iceball. “Perhaps not,” he agreed—and immediately launched the iceball at Mrs. King. It caught her on the upper arm and broke apart at once. The ice coating was only near the surface, after all.

“Oh no you didn’t!” Rapunzel exclaimed. She hurled her snowball right at him, catching him in the face with it.

The Kings themselves retaliated as well, pelting him with small, quickly made snowballs, but he soon learned how to avoid getting hit in the face—and it didn’t seem to bother him to be hit anywhere else. He bent down and made another large snowball, an ordinary soft one, which he sent at Rapunzel’s face. Clumps of snow tumbled beneath her coat.

She shrieked from the cold and stormed through the crossfire to where he was building another snowball. He smirked as she reached him and deposited it on top of her head. She shook her head, knocking most of the snow out of her hair, and pulled him down into a large snowdrift.

“Victory!” she called to her grandparents as she knocked over the accumulated snow surrounding him, burying him in it.

They laughed and headed over to where Rapunzel and Flynn were. He broke through the snow and stood up, dusting himself off. She laughed as they began to head back to the house. Everyone was now wet, cold, and snow-covered.

Rapunzel and Mrs. King were a few steps ahead of Mr. King and Flynn. Rapunzel was feeling too cheerful to remember that the steps were icy, and when she stepped on the first one, she lost her footing.

A shriek of terror escaped her mouth as she realized it, and she would have fallen face-forward on the wooden steps if her grandmother had not caught her.

Flynn’s heart stood still for the moment when he was sure she was going to fall forward across the stairs—the sharp corners pushing right up into her burgeoning abdomen—and it would have—would have—

He rushed ahead of Mr. King, reaching her just as the awareness of what had almost happened hit her and she started to shake in her grandmother’s grip.

“Thank you,” he gasped to the older woman.

Mrs. King gazed back at him, green eyes so like Rapunzel’s now wide with consciousness. “Let’s all get inside,” she said abruptly. “We shouldn’t be out here. My husband has a walking stick, and Rapunzel, of course….” She trailed off. “Playing in the snow is one thing, but _ice_ is….”

“Exactly,” Flynn agreed. He took Rapunzel firmly in hand and helped her up the stairs.

Once inside, they took off their sodden coats, gloves, and boots, and then piled into the living room. Flynn seized the remote and turned on the large TV, immediately finding the Weather Channel. It happened to be giving a local forecast.

“…And over the next two days, expect a warm-up to about 40 degrees,” the forecaster was saying.

Flynn looked contented at that. “That’s good,” he said.

Rapunzel was still shaking from the post-adrenaline rush. He noticed it and pulled her close to him. “You need to relax,” he said.

“But what almost happened out there….”

He shuddered. It was a horrible thing to think of. Not only would she probably have lost the baby in that spill, but at six months, it would have been a danger to her too—and they were stuck on top of this ice-covered mountain with no way to drive down. He pushed the thought out of his mind at once. “I know, but thank God—and your grandmother—that it didn’t, so don’t stress about it.” An idea suddenly occurred to him, and a wicked smile came over his face. “Hey, I’ve got a thought. This could be a perfect opportunity to use that hot tub upstairs….”

* * *

**Day Four, December 27.**

Rapunzel wondered what Flynn was doing when she woke up the next morning to an empty bed. It was unlike him to get up without playfully nudging her awake—unless she had a reason to be tired and left to sleep, which she didn’t. She trudged to the closet and put on some loose, casual clothes before going downstairs.

He was sitting at the breakfast table, black coffee and one of Mrs. King’s strudel bites in hand, smiling just a bit too broadly. It was almost a manic smile, and Rapunzel knew that it did not mean he was happy.

“Isn’t that just wonderful?” he said, keeping the manic smile on his face as he gestured at the window.

Rapunzel looked outside. Unless she was very mistaken, there appeared to be a fresh coating of snow on top of what had already fallen, melted, and refrozen. But that meant—

“Rapunzel, he is fixated on the fact that the snippet of forecast he heard yesterday evidently referred to the valley, and that at _this_ elevation, well, you can see for yourself,” Mrs. King explained patiently.

Rapunzel fixed herself a cup of coffee the way she liked it and sat down for breakfast. “Well,” she said, at a loss for words. “I don’t really know what to say. There’s nothing any of us can do about the weather.”

“The flight leaves tomorrow at three,” Flynn said, still smiling.

“Are the tickets refundable?” she asked.

“Yes, but….”

“But what?”

He sighed. “But nothing, I suppose. If your job doesn’t need you back immediately, then what’s the harm in staying on this mountain? Why not stay through January?”

His tone was not sarcastic, but rather a bit giddy. It disturbed Rapunzel, but she chose to treat it as if he _had_ uttered the comment in an annoyed sarcastic tone. “Oh, come off it. You don’t even know if we’ll have to cancel. And I don’t think it particularly matters if ‘my job needs me back’ if we can’t get off safely. We have e-mail. I’ll just e-mail my boss if it looks like we’ll be delayed.” She sipped her coffee. “You need to chill, Flynn. You’ve been freaking out about ice and snow ever since we got here.”

He downed the remainder of his coffee and set the mug down hard on the table. “Perhaps you’re right,” he agreed as he stood up. He pushed his chair up and went for his coat and boots, now dry. “I’m going to go outside and get some fresh air. And _chill.”_

“Literally! Be careful,” Rapunzel said.

He smiled and tousled her hair as he put on his coat. “Got my phone. Back in an hour or less.”

“Back? What are you going to do?”

He was headed for the door that led to the stairs down to the garage exit. “I’m going to hike down it a bit and see just what the road _is_ like.”

“Well, definitely be careful, then!”

He grinned and disappeared down the stairs. Rapunzel turned to her grandparents and continued her breakfast.

“Let him,” Mrs. King urged. “Maybe he’ll get it out of his system this way.”

“Cabin fever,” Mr. King observed. “Some people don’t cope well with being confined… or being in a situation where they feel that they have no control….”

Rapunzel winced. “I’m… not overly fond of either thing myself, actually,” she said.

The Kings both winced as well. “I’m sorry,” Mr. King said at once. “I didn’t think of… gosh, I’m sorry.”

She smiled weakly. “It’s all right. There is a difference between being confined by circumstances—forces of nature or what have you—and being confined at the hands of a person. Nobody did this _to_ us, so I’m not going to let it bother me much.”

Mr. King breathed a sigh of relief. “That’s a good point,” he said. “I’m not sure he feels the same way, though.”

“Flynn has always wanted to feel in control of everything about his environment,” she agreed. “But he doesn’t do dumb things. If he comes back up saying the road is still not drivable, then he _won’t_ want to risk driving it.”

Mrs. King chimed in. “Oh, definitely not after what he said when we first got here about how he wouldn’t have wanted to risk the drive up in falling snow. But… there are other things that can happen.”

* * *

“Well,” Flynn said cheerfully, hanging up his coat, “we’re not getting anywhere in that.” He went into the living room and headed over to the media shelf to look at the assortment of movies that the Kings kept there.

Suddenly the TV popped on. Flynn turned aside and glanced at the leather couch. Mr. King was seated there, and he had just turned the set on with the remote. It was on the Weather Channel still, and the older man began to watch it.

“Do you want to watch that?” Flynn asked.

“Yes. Why?”

“Don’t see the point, myself. They’re not going to talk about this elevation, and it’ll just annoy me to see them predicting warm temperatures near the valley.”

Mr. King raised an eyebrow. “They might cover this elevation. You can’t know unless you watch.”

“I was looking for a movie to put on,” Flynn said. “There’s a TV in your bedroom.”

Mr. King thought about it. “Okay,” he said, reaching into his pocket. He took out his billfold and withdrew a quarter. “Call it.”

Flynn chuckled. “Heads.”

Mr. King flipped the coin, and it landed on the floor—heads up. Flynn grinned and wordlessly went back to the media cabinet as Mr. King got up.

Rapunzel and Mrs. King had been observing the proceedings without comment. After the coin toss, Mrs. King turned to her granddaughter.

“I think it’s getting to them,” she said.

“What, the fact that they would actually settle a disagreement like that?”

“Yes, that they would mutually decide on it and accept the outcome.”

“I heard that,” Flynn called as he selected a movie from the cabinet.

“Good. I meant for you to,” Rapunzel called back.

He laughed. “Want to watch this with me?” He held up the movie.

Rapunzel shrugged. “Sure.”

Mrs. King finished her drink and went upstairs to watch the weather with her husband. After the movie was over, Flynn went to the media cabinet to select another one, but Rapunzel did not want to watch for another two hours. She went upstairs as well to work on her computer.

* * *

**Day Five, December 28.**

Rapunzel put the suitcase into the Kings’ SUV and climbed in the vehicle herself. She sat down next to Flynn and buckled her seatbelt as her grandmother got behind the wheel.

“If I start to lose control, I’m going to stop the car immediately,” she warned as she cranked it.

The SUV revved and began to slowly back out of the garage and onto the icy driveway. Yet more snow had fallen overnight, and early that morning, Flynn and Mrs. King had gone outside to attempt to scrape out a path. He had grave doubts that they were going to get down the mountain, but she still wanted to try.

The gravel of the driveway provided traction for the wheels, and the vehicle slowly edged away from the house and toward the road. Ending at the Kings’ house, it was also gravel for the last couple hundred vertical feet, though below that it was paved. Flynn had not hiked down the mountain to that point, but the family’s hope was that temperatures would be a bit warmer at the elevations where it was paved.

The vehicle eased onto the road. The friction of the rough surface kept it from skidding, though even the gravel was encased in ice underneath the snow. Rapunzel’s heart was pounding with anxiety, and she held her breath and avoided looking out the window.

After what seemed like forever, the SUV stopped. Rapunzel’s heart sank. “What’s wrong?” she asked her grandmother.

“I don’t like the look of the road,” Mrs. King replied tightly.

Rapunzel peered out the front windshield. Ahead of them, the paved section of the road began. But there was something strange about the road….

“I’m getting out,” Flynn announced, unbuckling his belt. “That looks like solid white ice to me, not snow. I’m going to check it out.” He opened the door and got out of the van before anyone could say a word.

Rapunzel watched him walk carefully over to where the paved road began. Hesitantly he put out a foot. She winced as he almost lost his footing. The road was completely slick. He stood there for a moment, back turned to the SUV, before turning around and getting back in. His face was grim.

“You can get out yourself and try walking on it, but I wouldn’t drive on it for anything,” he said. “I wouldn’t even drive on that if it were flat.”

Mrs. King put the van in park and got out to test the road as well. In a bit she returned to the vehicle looking equally grim.

“He’s right,” she said. “It’s just too dangerous.”

Rapunzel sighed. She was looking forward to getting back home… but it seemed that this wouldn’t happen today. And now—

“Can we get the van back up the mountain?” she asked concernedly.

Mrs. King winced. “I hope so. We sure can’t get down it yet.” She tried to back the car up to turn it around—

–And then something horrifying happened. The wheels began to spin, and the car started sliding off the road, toward the ditch that hugged the mountain.

On the other side of the road was a railing, a two- or three-foot tree line on the other side, and beyond that—the drop. The railing and trees would stop a fatal descent if the car had begun to slide in that direction, but no one wanted to wind up in the ditch on the other side either. That was where the SUV seemed to be headed, though. Rapunzel’s palms were covered in sweat. Flynn, noticing her anxiety, grabbed her and began to caress and massage her, but she could tell that he was just as nervous as she was. Mrs. King twisted the steering wheel and put the car in a lower gear, trying to keep it from going in the ditch. The front side of the car went off the road. Mrs. King threw the parking brake—and that, at last, stopped the slide.

Everyone in the vehicle was silent for a bit. Then Mrs. King spoke.

“Well,” she said in a bit of affected cheerfulness, “does anyone want me to try to turn around again?”

No one spoke. Flynn reached for the handle of his suitcase and slung his messenger bag over his shoulder. “I think we’re going to end up ditching the van if you do,” he replied. “I say we leave it here and walk back up the path. Does anyone else use this stretch of road?”

“No, everyone else who lives on this mountain is at a lower elevation. No one has any reason to use it except people going to and from our cabin.”

“You know,” Rapunzel remarked, “I made a trip down a mountain once. It was when I ran away from my mother. I hiked down a mountain on foot.” She turned to Flynn, green eyes wide with inspiration. “And Flynn used to go hiking in the Appalachians by himself as a boy. We both have experience with it—”

“In the _summer,”_ Flynn said. “You hiked in the middle of summer, as did I. This is a completely different situation, as you’ll see when we have to walk back up to the cabin.” He opened the door and stepped out. “Come on. We might as well get started.” He reached out a hand to her and helped her out of the car.

The air was bitingly cold. Grimly they gathered up their belongings and piled out of the van, making sure to lock it behind them as they slowly trudged up the gravel road. As Flynn had predicted, it did not take long for Rapunzel to become tired in the cold. She remembered her pregnancy and realized that he was right; if it was this tiring to make the comparatively short trip back to the cabin, it would have been a truly horrible idea to try to go down the mountain on foot. They were stuck in the cabin until the road became drivable.

* * *

Back in the cabin, Flynn took his phone out of his messenger bag and stalked away from the group to make the call to the airline to cancel the tickets. Once he got off the phone, he went back into the living room, took a movie from the media cabinet, and sat down in front of the TV again. The meaning was clear—the television was still his. Mr. and Mrs. King took the point and walked up the stairs to their own bedroom. Flynn stretched his arms and legs and reached for the remote to turn on his movie.

Rapunzel watched out the corner of her eye as she made herself a sandwich in the kitchen. “Flynn,” she said once the movie began, “didn’t you watch that movie yesterday?”

He laughed. “What difference does it make? You didn’t watch it when I put it on yesterday, so it shouldn’t bother you if I want to see it again.”

“It doesn’t _bother_ me….”

“Then why don’t you come and watch it with me?”

_Oh, why not?_ Rapunzel asked herself. She _hadn’t_ seen the movie, _National Treasure,_ before. She picked up her sandwich, poured herself some tea, and brought the snack into the living room. She sat down next to him and began to nibble on the sandwich as the movie started.

As the movie progressed, she could not help but wonder just why exactly he had developed a sudden interest in _this_ movie, a movie about a brilliant DC-area rogue who decided to steal the Declaration of Independence to protect it from criminals—and look for encoded information in the document. The premise was absurd, of course, pure fun, but still….

“Flynn,” she began hesitantly as the characters broke into the National Archives, “erm… don’t get any ideas, please.”

He laughed. “Oh, Rapunzel, there is nothing for you to worry about. The most valuable possession in Washington, DC is one I could get perfectly legally if I wanted. It’s not a physical artifact. I used to have it, you know, and who knows? Maybe I’ll want it again someday.” As her expression turned to obvious surprise and some disapproval, he winked at her and pulled her close, hugging her and throwing an arm around her.

The movie continued, with Rapunzel not moving away from Flynn the whole time. She loved the feeling of his arms around her, and she supposed there was something kind of cozy about being snowed in. She snuggled close to him and watched the movie. It was entertaining, a decent date movie—if this were a date.

Once the movie ended, he picked up the remote, returned to the main menu, and pressed Play again.

“Are you serious?” Rapunzel asked. She had been stretching and preparing to get up.

He shrugged. “Why not? What else is there to do?”

“We could _watch_ another movie, if nothing else….”

“I don’t want to.” The movie started again.

Rapunzel gazed at him in amazement. Then, without a word, she got up, went to the bedroom, and came back down with her laptop. “I want to sit here with you,” she said, “but—”

“But you’d rather spend two hours reading banal things on the Internet?”

She glared at him. “Was that necessary?”

“Sorry,” he apologized. “It wasn’t.”

She snuggled up against him again and turned on the computer as the movie began to play once more, but she quickly found that the background noise was a distraction. Besides, there was the stark realization that he was correct and so much material online _was_ banal. Sighing, she closed the laptop. The National Archives break-in sequence was playing again, and she thought back to the joking conversation they’d had the last time.

“Flynn, did you mean what you said before about ‘maybe wanting it again someday’—by which I assume you meant influence? Or was it just a joke?”

He turned to her with a raised eyebrow. “Not altogether,” he said. “You know I became unhappy with it because of the kind of work I had to do and the fact that the clients were only interested in abusing the system for their own purposes. But I still think _some_ people do get to lobby for things that would be good, rather than just trying to manipulate the system for money and power… and if the opportunity ever arose….” He trailed off. “I like being a writer for now, though.” He smiled reassuringly and squeezed her.

She managed to smile back at him.

* * *

**Day Six, December 29.**

“Well, no new snow fell last night,” Flynn observed over breakfast. “It was crystal clear and starry. That’s the good news. The bad news—”

“—is that crystal clear starry nights in winter usually mean damn cold temperatures,” Mr. King supplied. “So not a bit of this stuff melted.”

“Not a bit,” Flynn agreed as he downed his coffee. “I’ve already been out there.”

“At least the van isn’t buried beneath snow, since nothing new fell,” Mrs. King said.

“That’s true,” Flynn agreed. “And it wasn’t cold enough to freeze any of the fluids in it.”

“Not even close,” said Mr. King.

Rapunzel started laughing. This was just ridiculous—the whole situation. She and Flynn should have been in Washington, the Kings in their regular house in suburban Denver, by last night, but here they were on top of this mountain still. They weren’t going to get off it today either. And the three others were now discussing specific details of the situation in casual, factual tones, repeating and confirming what each other said. It was just too much for her all of a sudden, and she found that she could not stop laughing.

Her grandmother came over and thumped her on the back. She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself.

“Are you all right?” the older woman asked.

Rapunzel finally stopped laughing. She took another deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’m fine,” she said. “It was just hilariously funny all of a sudden. I don’t even know why.”

“It’s a reaction to _this,”_ Mrs. King said. “We all need to find something to do today—something _different,”_ she added pointedly as Flynn headed over to the Blu-ray player in the living room to watch “his” movie for the fourth time in three days.

“No one but Rapunzel watched this with me—” he began to object, but Mr. King cut in.

“Flynn, if you put that on again, I swear to you, I will take it and chuck it over the side of the mountain, and then I will put the TV on C-SPAN and make you watch _it_ all day.”

_“No!”_ Mrs. King exclaimed. “Honestly—”

Flynn smirked. “Sorry, ‘Senator,’ but even your wife doesn’t want to watch _that.”_

“I certainly don’t, but do find a different movie to watch. Let Rapunzel pick.”

Flynn thought about that for a moment and decided it was fair. He turned around to ask her, but she was not downstairs. He looked up, past the railing that was directly above the couch, and caught sight of her walking into the bedroom on the uppermost floor. “Rapunzel!” he called.

“I’m going to work on a craft!” she called back.

Flynn turned to the Kings. “Well, so much for that.” He shelved the movie and turned to get his coat. “I’m going to go back outside and walk. Don’t chuck the movie over the side of the mountain, please.” The last comment was stated in a deadpan tone, and the Kings could not tell if it was a joke or not. They exchanged unsure looks before sitting down on the couch.

They had put on an older movie, one that they had seen on many dates when they were younger, when the first paper snowflake settled on Mrs. King’s silver hair.

She did not seem to feel it. If they had been paying attention, the Kings would have heard a small, vaguely disappointed sigh before the next paper snowflake drifted down. This one landed on Mr. King’s shoulder, and they _did_ notice it.

Mrs. King picked it up gingerly. It was a very delicate one, far more than the usual fairly bulky and solid paper snowflakes one might see. Mr. King then noticed that she had one on top of her head.

A giggle came from above, and a third one fluttered gracefully down before resting on the seat next to them.

They looked up. Rapunzel was seated on the floor above them, a small pile of the snowflakes next to her as she dropped them down. She was beaming.

At this moment, Flynn’s footsteps sounded up the stairs from the garage level. He entered the main room and announced, without any fanfare, “I checked on the van, and it’s all right. No wild animals got into it.”

When the Kings did not reply, he gazed up at Rapunzel, who had yet another paper snowflake in hand, about to drop it over the railing. “Rapunzel, what are you doing?”

“It’s funny!” she exclaimed. “Snow—we’ve been snowed in, and still are, so I thought, why not go with it? So I started making paper snowflakes and dropping them over the side.”

He stared hard at her, unable to think of anything to say in response.

Mr. King broke the silence by clearing his throat. “Um, Flynn—you said that the van was fine, and nothing got into it.”

“Correct.”

“What about the road?”

“Same as before, I’d say. Why?”

“Well, a thought suddenly occurred to me about clearing it.”

Rapunzel leaped up and bounded down the stairs before he could continue. “Really?” she exclaimed excitedly. “Is there equipment around here that Flynn and I didn’t know about?”

“No—it was something else,” the older man said. He paused the movie. “I was thinking—what if we all got a boulder covered in snow and rolled it down the path?”

Dead silence met this suggestion.

He tried to explain further. “The idea is that it would pick up snow and mash through ice, clearing out the road for us.”

Still no one responded. Stares met him.

Finally Flynn spoke up. “Uh—what gave you that idea?” He gazed at the television. “Have you been watching old cartoons?”

“No, why?”

Flynn struggled with his words. He did not know how to explain that the “idea” was straight out of an old Wile E. Coyote cartoon without, well, saying exactly that. Mrs. King spoke up, to his relief.

“Because it’s cartoonish!” she said. She shook her head. “What has happened to us? We’re all _losing it._ Rapunzel is dropping paper snowflakes over the railing and laughing about it… Flynn watches the same movie several times and then wanders around outside… and _you_ make suggestions about rolling boulders down the mountain to clear the road! Good Lord, we have to get off this mountain and _soon.”_ She stopped the old movie and switched the channel to the weather immediately.

“If you’re looking for a forecast for us, good luck,” Flynn remarked. “They’re only interested in populated areas.”

“You brought a laptop, didn’t you?” Mrs. King replied. “Go look us up, then!”

“She’s right,” Rapunzel chimed in. “You can get forecasts for any area. Actually, I’ll do it myself.” She scampered back up the stairs and came back down with her computer.

Once she searched for the point forecast for the mountain, her eyes lit up, and a smile formed on her face. Three other pairs of eyes that had been fixed upon her widened too.

“Well?” Flynn said anxiously. “Good news?”

“Excellent news,” she said. “It’s supposed to warm up to _45_ tomorrow, and _yes_ Flynn, that _is_ for this elevation. It’ll be warmer than that farther down. Perfectly sunny. If we timed it carefully—left by late afternoon, after it’s heated up and before the temperature starts to drop again, we might be able to get down.” She turned to her grandparents. “Maybe we could stay in your regular house until we can get a flight?”

“Of course— _if_ we can get off the mountain,” Mrs. King said immediately.

* * *

**Day Seven, December 30.**

Anxiety was almost palpable in the cabin, as the four members of the family waited for the predicted weather conditions to work their magic. All day long, Flynn and Rapunzel went outside, sticking a yardstick into a certain spot to measure the snow melt and checking the thermometer. The forecast was correct, at least; the temperature rose as predicted and the sun blared down on the snow, helping to burn it away. By mid-afternoon, the snow had turned filthy and sludgy throughout the yard, and icicles that had formed on the eaves were melting and falling off the roof, presenting a hazard to anyone who might walk under them. These signs were more than welcome to the family.

Unfortunately, the ice pack underneath the snow did not melt nearly as quickly. At four o’clock, Rapunzel checked the forecast once more on her computer and winced.

“Even with the ice and snow remaining, we really should try to get down today,” she warned. “This says it’s going to dip below freezing again tonight, which will only refreeze all this… but then after that, guess what?”

“More chances of snow?” Flynn guessed.

“Cloudiness tomorrow and cooler temperatures, and then in days to come, yes. If we don’t get off this mountain today, I really don’t know when we’ll have another chance—and the _food_ is going to run out eventually.”

Flynn studied the forecast. At last he spoke. “She’s right,” he said to the Kings. “I think we have to try. Hopefully the ice on the paved part of the road will have melted at lower elevations. The road itself should have been heated up from the sun today….”

“Well,” Mrs. King said, “if this is our last chance for a while, I agree. Let’s get packed—again—and make a try of it.”

Before long, they were packed up and trudging down the mountain to where the SUV was parked. Flynn put his bags into the vehicle and walked ahead to the paved road. It _looked_ much clearer…. He squinted. Yes, the thick layer of ice had been broken up. Now only patches of ice remained on the road. It would be treacherous, but the extent of it should decrease with altitude. He returned to the van and got in.

Mrs. King cranked the SUV and slowly, carefully, began the descent, never letting the car out of first gear. Her gaze was fixed upon the paved road ahead of them, as she tried to find the least icy spots.

It was a slow—excruciatingly slow—drive down the road, and the sun began to set as a beautiful orange fireball before they were even halfway down. Whatever amount of melting that had occurred would be the limit of it; after this point, temperatures would start to drop again. But at last, the icy patches on the road vanished altogether, and only isolated spots of snow in shaded areas remained visible on the side of the road. No one in the car wanted to say it; it felt almost like a jinx, but the mood lightened nonetheless. Mrs. King changed gears and began to speed up her descent.

When the twisting mountain road made its final curve and intersected with a highway at the foot of the mountain, everyone inside (except for Mrs. King) cheered. Rapunzel beamed and squeezed Flynn’s hand.

“Unbelievable,” he remarked as they got on the highway. Not a bit of snow remained here. “To think that we would have been stuck in that cabin for who knows how long if we hadn’t decided to chance this.”

“Don’t even say it,” Rapunzel said at once. “Don’t even _say_ it. Next Christmas, we are doing _something else._ I am not going up that mountain in winter again if there is even a one percent chance of snow in the forecast.”

Flynn laughed. “Well, look at it this way. We’ll have a story to tell when we get back. It should be quite chilling, too. DC residents think four inches of snow is reason to go into full emergency mode. Anyone we tell will think we’re rugged survivors. People will be in awe.”

Rapunzel snorted with laughter. “That’s the reason you want to talk about this? I should have known.”

He smirked. “Why shouldn’t we talk about it? We _are_ survivors.” He squeezed her affectionately. “I’ll book tickets as soon as we get to your grandparents’ valley house.”

“Which won’t be long,” Mrs. King intoned. She smiled in the rear-view mirror. “I know this wasn’t an ideal trip, but I hope the two of you weren’t completely miserable throughout it.”

“Oh no,” Rapunzel reassured her. “When we didn’t think too hard about the _problem_ aspect of it, it was kind of cozy. Everyone was warm… the house was really nice… and there’s something kind of romantic about being snowed in.”

_“Now_ you can say that,” Flynn observed.

“I sure can, just like _you_ can consider it perfectly normal to watch the same movie over and over when you’re snowed in. Perceptions change.”

He smiled wryly. “I guess that’s a valid point. I’m still glad to be off, though.”

The others immediately chimed in with agreement, and the conversation fell silent as the van continued down the highway. Rapunzel and Flynn gazed out the window. The stars glittered brightly overhead. _What a welcome sight,_ Rapunzel thought. She glanced at Flynn, who had a similarly relieved and grateful look on his face. Their eyes met, and though neither of them said it, they realized that they were both thinking the same thing.


	15. Anniversary

Rapunzel scanned the room, a frown crossing her face involuntarily. Flynn was nowhere in sight. She glanced down at her watch, though she had already checked it not half a minute ago. Yes, he was _late,_ a full ten minutes late _._ Her frown deepened. This wasn’t cool. _He_ didn’t have any reason to be late. _He_ hadn’t been the one who had to get away from the chatty pair of friends who were babysitting their eight-month-old for them.

Surely he hadn’t _forgotten._ Surely he was just having difficulty locating her. This was his idea, after all—celebrating their first anniversary here, in this overpriced dance club that had arguably brought them together twice. It was where they had first met, and it was where she had been the night that she called him after that rough month of separation. Given that, she could understand his sentimentality about the place. But more practically, it was a nightmare finding a specific person here, with the dark atmosphere and flashing colored lights—and she was about as far away from the dance floor as she could be, being seated at a small table for two in a _comparatively_ quiet area. It was virtually impossible to find anyone who was dancing. This had not been her idea, and so far, she wasn’t having a particularly good time.

Before tonight, Rapunzel had only been here those two times. When she had been single, she had not sought to change that status, nor had she sought out meaningless hookups. She had come here on her birthday because Pascal and Max had recommended it as a fun place and it was her twenty-first, and she had come back the second time because she was depressed and had a subconscious idea that she would meet Flynn again here. Both times, she had been put off by any other male who gave her attention and had avoided socializing as much as she could.

Tonight, Rapunzel had naïvely thought that since she was not single anymore and wore visible evidence of it, she would be left alone. _Should’ve known better,_ she thought sardonically as she sipped her beer. She’d only been here fifteen minutes, and already one guy who was not her husband had approached her, asking to “buy her a drink”—though she knew what that meant.

He was well-dressed, she supposed, but not in a way she found even remotely appealing. Black trousers, a loud purple shirt with no tie or jacket, patterned suspenders with small political buttons pinned to them. Casual black shoes with laces. He was scruffy but lacking anything that qualified as a real beard, and he wore a pair of those heavy black-rimmed glasses that were ubiquitous among a certain set of people. To Rapunzel, who had an artist’s mind, everything about his look seemed calculated to mock the suit-and-tie crowd, especially in conjunction with the condescending smile. He had claimed to work at an activist organization, which she didn’t doubt for one second. She had seen this type before.

She had wanted him to be gone as soon as he showed up, but when he asked her where she was from and made a snotty political crack about her home state—saying, of course, that it was “just a joke”—she was tempted to punch him in the face. She had tried to remain polite, pointedly placing her left hand on the tabletop right before his eyes, making sure her rings gleamed in the flashing lights, as she firmly declined his offer of a drink. But even that did not dissuade him. The guy had merely raised an eyebrow at the rings—a facial expression that drove her wild when Flynn made it, but that was _incredibly_ sleazy from this character—and said, superior condescension dripping from his words, “You know, seeing _that_ jewelry just saddens me. He doesn’t own you. You can make your own choices, and you’re here without him for a reason anyway. Live a little.”

At that, she had turned around with a look of utter disgust written on her face and told him harshly to get out of her sight. She thought for a moment about saying that Flynn was on his way, but decided that anyone believing that a monogamous relationship was oppression deserved a straight smackdown, certainly not an explanation or excuse for refusing his company. After he had finally disappeared into the crowd, she was glad she hadn’t said anything more. But the encounter had certainly spoiled her mood for the time being.

She was staring down at her table, lost in thought, when suddenly a hand brushed her right shoulder and trailed lightly down her side. Jumping in her seat, she whirled around with her hand raised, sure it was the smarmy hipster character again, and prepared to smack him in the face. Instead she met a pair of very familiar brown eyes.

“Whoa,” Flynn exclaimed, eyes wide, as he scooted away and set his drink down on the other side of the little table. “Easy!”

Something was familiar about his clothes, and suddenly she realized what it was. He was dressed similarly, though not identically, to how he had been the night they had met, wearing black belted pants and a white shirt. Tonight, though, he also wore a vest and a tie. A smile was forming on her face as he settled in, and her back was still tingling where he had touched her.

He sat down across from her and leaned across the tiny table, inches from her. “Somebody been bothering you?” he asked as he sipped his drink.

“Yeah,” she said with a scowl. “And he wouldn’t even go away when I showed him my rings. He just spouted platitudes about how ‘you don’t own me.’ I had to tell him to get lost.”

Flynn’s eyebrows narrowed. He turned and scanned the crowds. “That him?” he asked.

Rapunzel looked at the person Flynn was gazing at. It was the guy who had bothered her, and he was glaring at the couple with something very like loathing. Evidently he had looked back at Rapunzel’s table and recognized Flynn from his days as a financial industry lobbyist or his recent book about the Crown Group scandal. “That’s him,” she confirmed. She looked back at Flynn and smiled adoringly at him for the benefit of the hipster. When he realized that they were aware he was staring at them, he glanced away at once and tried to vanish into the crowd.

Flynn laughed. “What a tool. Want me to kick his ass? I’ll gladly do it.”

Rapunzel giggled. “No, I don’t want you to get arrested on _his_ account. He’ll eventually get what he deserves. That’s not what I want to think about tonight, anyway.”

The anger left his face, and a smile replaced it at once. He reached across the small table, took her left hand, and brought it to his lips. “Me either,” he said. He brought her hand down but did not release it. “What _do_ you want to think about?” he said in a sultry voice.

After a year of being married and several months more of being together, she knew how to play this game. Smiling benignly, she bent her head toward her drink but peered up at him from beneath dark eyelashes. “Oh, I think you can guess.”

His grip on her hand tightened. “Maybe I can’t,” he said. “Maybe there are too many possibilities for what I could be doing in your… _fantasies.”_ She felt a blush creep over her cheeks. “So why don’t you help me out?”

She let her gaze drop down again. “I was thinking about the time we met, actually.”

“Ah.” He smirked at her. “You really derailed the plans I had that night, you know.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “Did I, now?”

“You did,” he said. His gaze dropped, as did the smirk on his face. “I meant to take you to my condo, take you to bed, go out to eat or something the next day, and then if we’d hit it off, start going out regularly. But you had too much to drink for me to even get to step one.”

She chuckled. “I remember. Such a gentleman.”

“But of course,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Then his tone became more solemn. “All I can say for myself then is that at least I _was_ looking for something serious and meaningful. I just wasn’t going about it the right way.”

“Flynn, don’t do that,” she objected. “You stuck around because you _did_ want more, you wanted it from _me,_ and so you were willing to help me sort myself out. That’s what matters.”

“No, you’re right,” he agreed. “But I am glad now that it didn’t happen in the order I’d planned that first night.” The smirk appeared on his face again.

She smiled contentedly. “I might possibly be more open to it tonight, you know. No matter how much I end up having,” she added.

“Oh, I’m sure you would be.” He paused, regarding her with sharp eyes for a moment, before speaking again. Then he leaned across the table. “Is that what you’re thinking about?” he said in a teasing voice. “Tsk, tsk. Bad girl.”

“If I am, it’s your fault,” she said, staring back at him challengingly.

“Oh no,” he said. “I am not responsible for _your_ naughty thoughts.” He finished his beer and ambled around the table, while she kept her eyes on him the whole time. He stopped next to her and stood by her right side, not touching her, just watching.

“What are you up to?” she said, distrust in her words, but also anticipation.

He merely raised a single eyebrow at her in response.

“Flynn,” she pleaded.

He gave her a smirk, clearly enjoying this. “Why don’t you finish that and then you’ll find out?” he purred.

Her heart thumped, and she smirked back at him as she returned to her drink. She had been a little uneasy about even ordering it; she had not had anything alcoholic in almost a year and a half, but after one, she felt no inclination to overindulge. She drank up the remainder of it. Feeling a bit giddier, yet fully in control of herself, she turned on her stool with a wicked smile—

–But he was too fast. An arm wrapped around her waist. The dress she was wearing, a satiny black sleeveless number with a flared skirt, was pretty thin, and she felt his grip through it. Her breath caught in her chest as he drew her close and leaned over. His breath was hot against her ear. His lips brushed lightly against her earlobe. She twisted almost involuntarily in his grip, feeling a thrill rush over her, an energy that she had to dissipate somehow.

He chuckled. “I love how demonstrative you are,” he said softly. He leaned in and nipped at her ear gently, making her squirm again.

“Stop tormenting me in public,” she protested, her hands finding their way to the arm that wrapped around her waist and pinned her against him. She tried to pull his arm away, but her struggles only seemed to increase his grip.

“No,” he said merrily. “I didn’t get to do anything like this the last time we were both in here. You just said it would be different tonight, and I’m taking you up on that.”

“I didn’t mean in public,” she said, but she stopped trying to remove his arm from her waist.

He laughed. “Oh, don’t you worry—I’m not going to stop once we’re alone.”

She blushed hotly. “I meant other people seeing.”

“It’s nothing out of the ordinary for a place like this,” he said as he planted a kiss on the side of her cheek. He whirled her around to face him. “Please?”

She was taken by surprise to hear him say that in that imploring tone, and as she glanced up and met his eyes, many things passed through her mind. His brown eyes were gleaming with merriment, but they were also wide and pleading. She saw in them the sardonic, arrogant side of him and, at the same time, the earnest, tender side. She saw her husband, the father of her child, the person who knew her best of anyone in the world. She saw the person who had refused to give her up even when she had given up on herself, who had been the catalyst for her to save herself from her own demons—and whom she had, in turn, saved from _his_ demons. And she saw the confident, well-to-do young man who had insisted on getting to know her that night.

She had kissed him—and more—countless times, but never in the place they had met. The last time they were here together, they had still been haunted by those demons. Now that was different, and she suddenly wanted to acknowledge that to him.

So she stood on her tiptoes, reached for his face, and kissed him full on the mouth. His eyes widened for a moment in surprise, but he reached for the back of her head at once, taking control of the kiss and deepening it.

Rapunzel found that he was correct about no one paying attention to them making out. The only other time they had ever lost control in public like this was when he had proposed to her, and they had stood kissing and embracing just off the sidewalk for one of the reflecting pools. People _had_ noticed _that._ There was something very liberating about _this_ situation, and it was even more liberating to know that—unlike most of the other pairs who indulged in this here— _they_ already knew, trusted, and loved each other. There was no “script” for them, and there would be no sense of anxiety, uncertainty, or loneliness to follow later.

At last he broke the kiss and drew away from her. “When was the last time I said I loved you?” he murmured.

She thought about it. “This morning, I think.”

“Too long ago.” He pulled her in again and kissed her hard, then, just as firmly, pulled away and regarded her with fiery eyes. “I love you.”

She beamed. She couldn’t even help it; the corners of her mouth seemed to curl upward of their own accord. He just made her feel so _happy._ “I love you too,” she said.

He smiled that crooked smile that she adored so much. “Want to dance?”

She giggled, realizing why he had asked her that. He had also asked her to dance the night they had met, and she had declined, afraid of being made fun of. At their wedding, they had finally danced together, but after that, there had not been an opportunity for it. She nodded eagerly. He leaned in, gave her one more quick kiss on her cheek, and together they walked hand in hand toward the dance floor.


	16. Safe Place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a separate fic on ff.net.
> 
> It is VERY NSFW and contains light bondage.

Rapunzel gazed across the concrete parking garage as she clung to Flynn’s arm, the pair of them hurrying toward the elevator. They had just returned from a very enjoyable evening in the city, where a lecture had been put on by a well-known novelist about supporting creative writing in children and teens. Following the lecture, most of the attendees had gone to a nearby black-tie restaurant to eat and socialize, and after the lecture and dinner, Rapunzel and Flynn were ready to call it a night.

Flynn turned to her as they got into the elevator. They were alone, and he relaxed as he punched the button for the lobby of their condominium tower. “You know,” he said thoughtfully, “there were a lot of rich people there tonight.”

She stifled a laugh. What sort of comment was that? “I guess so, but you’re rich,” she said. “We’re rich by any definition of the word.”

“Yes, but I mean really rich, like multimillionaires. And it got me to thinking. Education reform these days is never about encouraging creative interests. It’s teacher accountability, making sure kids know a lot of rote facts, et cetera. And I think….” He paused, unsure about whether to continue.

She looked encouragingly at him. He took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “I think I could go back to K Street and start up my own little firm with that focus. Lobby for _good_ education reform bills, grants for libraries and community centers to hold youth writing fairs, art fairs, you get the idea.” He was getting excited about this.

The elevator stopped, the doors slid open, and the pair faced the opulent, well-lit front lobby of the building. Rapunzel looked at him, surprised at what she had just heard. “Who would the clients be who would pay you?” she asked. Then she recalled what he had just said, and comprehension dawned on her. _“Oh._ Right.”

“A lot of philanthropist-type people were at the lecture,” he said as they walked past the rushing fountain. “The interest is there. The cause just needs people willing to do the ground work with the politicians.”

“You’re sure you want to do that?” she asked. “Go back to K Street? I thought you liked writing.”

“I do, but you’ve probably noticed how I become stir-crazy if I don’t have a story to work on. I need something to do as a ‘regular’ job in addition to that, and this—this would be different from before, Rapunzel. This would be a good thing. It’s what I _thought_ I could do on K Street when I first came to DC, only now, I have the resources to actually _do_ it.”

She considered this. It was true enough; lobbying for a noble cause was quite different from what he used to do before he met her, and if she were completely honest with herself, she actually wouldn’t mind—nor be particularly surprised—if the comment became reality at some point. He _had_ been prone to boredom and “cabin fever” working at home, and she had noticed. If he didturn out to be serious, he would probably do well at it, as a novelist and (for the time being) former lobbyist himself. He would have credibility.

“Well,” she said softly, squeezing his arm affectionately, “you know what I think about things like this. You should follow your dreams.”

He smiled gently at her and squeezed her back. They stopped at the elevators and pushed the button. The doors opened immediately, and they stepped inside. As it began to ascend, Rapunzel took deep breaths. Nobody else was there with them, and they had certainly had their share of private elevator kisses before, but she knew that they couldn’t get too carried away just yet.

She tried to digest what he had just said, but she found that it wouldn’t stick in her brain. Her mind was focused elsewhere, as it had been for much of the event. Whatever possible aspirations he might have formed, and however enjoyable the whole event had been, Rapunzel was glad it was over, because she wanted to be alone with him. She had scarcely left her husband’s side the whole time, because she had felt a burning need to be close to him—to have physical contact with him—ever since the two of them had put on their clothes for the event. That was really what set this off, seeing him all dressed up.

She was not sure exactly when it had started, but at some point during her relationship with him, she had developed a very strong attraction to how Flynn looked in a tailored suit. –Of course, she thought, she would find him attractive in ratty jeans and a T-shirt, but there was just something about seeing him dressed up that turned her into putty in his hands if he wanted her to be. Especially when she herself was intensely conscious of the shortness, tightness, and straplessness of her own dress. It made her feel sophisticated, but also sensual and vulnerable, a feeling that was only heightened by comparison with his powerful master-of-the-universe look when he was dressed up. Several hours earlier, when he had emerged from the bathroom suited up and smelling of cologne, she had felt a thrill ripple over her body that had never quite gone away even when they circulated. She _needed_ to have contact with him, to feel his warm dry hand around her waist or lightly touching her bare shoulders, to feel the cool metal of the ring on his left hand and instinctively touch her own ring in reaction, to brush against his side and breathe in his scent.

And now she needed a great deal more than that. Her imagination had been running on overdrive the whole time, because for the past four hours, she had been utterly unable to do anything to relieve her urge. She couldn’t grab him up and kiss him, not in front of all those writers, agents, think tank-ers, and philanthropists. She certainly couldn’t press herself against his chest and slip her hands under his suit jacket, nimble fingers finding small shirt buttons, popping them open. Touching him in chaste, refined, venue-appropriate ways really only made the urge worse, for all that she kept doing it. She couldn’t help herself. But now, after four hours of being close, with only a few layers of fabric between them, reveling in the tactile sensations, she had a problem, and it _had_ to be fixed soon.

 _Ding!_ The elevator finally stopped at the top floor, where their condo was. In the moment before the doors slid open, Rapunzel felt a light stroke trace her hip and trail toward her back, following the curve of her ass.

 _“Flynn!”_ she exclaimed, feeling heat rise in her cheeks, as she whipped her head upward to meet his gleaming eyes. He merely smirked back at her, raising one eyebrow suggestively. Oh yes, he knew what she had been thinking the whole time. –Though she supposed she hadn’t exactly been subtle about it, at least not to the person who knew her better than she knew herself in some ways.

Quietly they hurried down the short hallway until they were at the door. Flynn unlocked it, opened it, and they walked into the condo. All the rooms were dark except for the living room. In there, a single lamp glowed dimly with a low light, and as their eyes adjusted to the darkness, the pair immediately picked out the forms of their best friends passed out on the blue sectional couch.

Or… maybe not passed out. Max’s eyes popped open. He stretched his arms, nudged Pascal next to him, and gave a weak smile to Flynn and Rapunzel.

“Have a good time?” he asked in a raspy voice.

They nodded together. “It was great. I hope you two didn’t have too much trouble,” Flynn said.

“None at all,” Max replied.

“Is she asleep?”

In response, Pascal placed his fingertip over his lips to indicate quiet. “Her door is closed, but yeah, we got her to nod off about two hours ago.”

“Well, I don’t want to keep you here any longer when you’re both obviously tired and probably want to get back home,” Flynn said. He pulled his wallet out of his pants pocket and opened it up.

“Oh, for—” Max began to object.

“Please don’t,” Pascal protested. “We’re friends, not a for-profit baby-sitting service.”

Flynn raised an eyebrow. “I was going to give you something for the cab fare to get you to the Metro,” he said.

They exchanged glances. “Well….” Max trailed off.

Flynn took advantage of their hesitation to pull a twenty out of his billfold and push it at them. “Just take it,” he said. “Asking this of friends for _free_ is one thing… asking it _at a cost to them_ is another.”

Rapunzel couldn’t help but wish that they would comply with his wish and hit the road. As much as she liked her friends and appreciated their willingness to look after her and Flynn’s one-year-old daughter, she wanted them to leave so that she and her husband could… carry on. Her hips still tingled from that touch in the elevator.

Reluctantly Max accepted the bill. He and Pascal stood up and stretched again. “Well,” Pascal said with a sideways glance at Rapunzel, “I’m glad you had a good time, but I bet you want to be alone”—he grinned at Rapunzel—”and to be honest, _we_ are both tired, obviously, and ready to get home ourselves.”

“So enjoy the rest of your night,” Max said. “See you later.”

When the front door finally shut behind them, Flynn turned to Rapunzel with a smirk on his face. “Now where were we?” he said.

Rapunzel smirked back. “Your hand was misbehaving.”

He broke into a toothy leer. “Oh, _right,”_ he said. Suddenly he lunged forward. His hands found black satin wrapped tightly around feminine curves. “Like this?” he growled, grabbing and squeezing her ass unabashedly now.

She yelped at the ferocity of his movements. A fuzzy haze of lust was starting to come over her, like it always did whenever she was in this condition and he was doing something like this. But she retained just enough awareness to realize that this could get noisy fast, and the door to their daughter’s room—which used to be the study, before they moved the desks into their bedroom and the bookshelves into the living room—was the first door down the hallway, a mere ten feet away. She didn’t want the baby to wake up, not now. “I— _oh!—_ let’s… go to the—”

Flynn didn’t need her to finish or to be any more articulate than that. He understood. In a fluid motion he swept her up in his arms. Her legs dangled over one arm, while his hand _somehow_ found its way up her thigh, bunching her dress up, tickling perilously close to her panty line. She gave him a heated glare, but there was no actual anger in it, and he could tell. Winking lewdly at her, he carried her back to the master bedroom and immediately closed the door behind them as they went in.

Her breaths were coming faster and faster as she felt herself deposited on the floor, his hands remaining firmly on her waist. She found her footing and managed to look up at him. What she saw sent shivers down her body. His eyes burned with a fire she had seen only on rare occasions, and his facial muscles were set in a cockily determined expression that seemed to shout, _“You are mine, I’m going to have you, and there’s not a thing you can do about it.”_

Rapunzel loved it when he looked at her that way. It made her heart race a little bit faster.

Flynn’s hands had never left her waist, but as her gaze met his and the shiver ran over her, she felt them begin to trail up her sides. She shivered again. Her knees were starting to feel weak.

His hands curved around her back, converging toward the top of her dress… she closed her eyes in anticipation of feeling him unzip her dress… but _no._ He went farther up by an inch. Slightly coarse fingertips found smooth warm skin, and in a microsecond, she let out a yelp as a physical shudder ran down her back muscles. She shook; her muscles twitched and rippled—and she heard a soft, smug laugh. Her eyes fluttered open again and locked with his.

Then she heard the low _zzzzzzzip_ and felt the gentle tickle of the zipper down her back as her dress fell open, exposing her skin to his touch. The sheathlike black dress fell to the floor immediately, and as it slipped off her body, her breath hitched in her chest. If she had felt vulnerable in the cocktail dress, she felt completely, utterly at his mercy now, standing before her filthy rich well-dressed corrupt-ex-lobbyist-turned-writer wearing nothing but her panties and strapless bra. The sheer novelesque aspect of the situation would have amused her if she had not been… preoccupied with other thoughts.

Flynn breathed heavily and focused his gaze upon her. He ran his hand up her left side very lightly—deliberately so, because she knew that _he_ knew a light, teasing touch would have a much greater effect on her than a hard, possessive grope. _That,_ she realized, would come a bit later… but for now he wanted to touch her lightly enough that her response would be that much more out of proportion to what _he_ actually did. He wanted to relish her reacting to the slightest touch of his.

And she did. She shivered, trembled, her breaths grew shorter and faster and increasingly turned into gasps, as his fingers gently traced down her bare skin. Maybe she could stop some of this, she thought for a moment, control herself a little better, but she didn’t want to do that. She wanted _this._ She wanted to react to his every touch, to give herself over to his mercy—or more aptly, _mercilessness._

It couldn’t have been more than a couple of minutes that he spent softly stroking her sides, but when he finally stopped, Rapunzel was practically gasping for breath. This had had the effect he wanted it to have, all right. She wanted him _so badly_ and there he was, but he was still fully dressed. She breathed deeply, trying to cool the fires for just a minute, and reached for his tie, meaning to start removing _his_ clothes.

But Flynn had other ideas. “Nope,” he said, taking her hands and holding them. “You don’t do that. _You…”_ —he turned to her with a wicked smirk—”… _you_ sit down on the bed and watch me.” He released her hands and leaned in, centimeters away from her, his breath hot against her face. “Watch me, and think about what I’m going to do to you once they’re off,” he said in a fierce hiss.

She swallowed hard as she crawled on the bed, kicking off her shoes. _“Are_ you?” she managed to get out.

He smirked. “I am.” He untied his necktie and slipped it off. “And _you’re_ going to let me.” He unbuckled his belt and slipped it through the belt loops, clearly determined to take his time and remove every article of clothing separately as she watched.

She could not keep her eyes off him. Transfixed, she watched as he quickly took off his clothes. She found herself involuntarily slipping her hand between her legs; then, when it caught his eye and a smug grin spread across his face, she quickly drew it away and began discreetly rubbing her thighs together, feeling pitiful as she did, but helpless against the lust and desire growing in her.

At last, when he was wearing nothing but his trousers, he climbed onto the bed next to her and lunged greedily at her. She squealed as skin found heated skin and fell backward, pinned against the mattress by him, feeling a hard bulge press against her lower abdomen already. He leaned in and kissed her full on the mouth, _hard,_ as his hands found their way under her body and expertly unhooked her bra. He pulled back from the kiss, drew the undergarment out from under her, and cast it upon the floor.

“I’ve been thinking about this,” he growled. His hands began to wander over her body once more, pausing on her breasts. “About getting you right here—right where you belong—and just….” He trailed off, leaving the threat of ravishment all the more enticing for being unspoken, and let his hands slide down to his own waistline. In one sweeping movement he removed pants and underwear and tossed them aside, barely lifting himself off her as he did. Then he found herhips once more. Fingers slipped under the small bikini waistband of her panties. Slowly, tantalizingly, he began to slip them down her legs.

Sometimes Rapunzel wanted to be feisty, because she could somehow tell that that was what would drive both of them wild, but not tonight. She didn’t want to say no even if they both knew it was a lie and both knew how the game would end anyway. Tonight, there was _nothing_ more appealing, more erotic, than to continue what she had been doing since they began, and to surrender to his touch—to trust him completely with her body. In the world outside, she had to withhold some degree of trust from everyone, something that was natural for her after years of having her trust exploited—perhaps _too_ natural. She needed times like this when she _could_ trust someone with everything she had. It was the one safe place to do that, and the fact that she knew she could trust him so completely only increased her attachment to him.

Breathing heavily, she bent her knees and drew her legs up to help him get her underwear off. He shifted his weight off her, slid the thin satiny undergarment down her legs, and, smiling wickedly, stretched his arm over the bed to drop it smoothly on the floor. For a moment she held her breath, knowing what came next.

He shifted back on top of her, now with absolutely no barriers between them. Instinctively she drew her legs apart a bit to let him settle his weight in the middle. One hand of his trailed across her jawline and down her neck. She hissed in pleasure and tilted her head back to give him the access that she knew he wanted. His eyes gleamed and he leaned in to trail kisses down her neck. His wandering hands found her sides once more—but she suddenly wanted something much more possessive than that from him.

“Flynn please,” she gasped.

He drew back and regarded her. _“Yes?”_ he said.

 _“Please,”_ she said again, hoping he would understand. She wasn’t sure exactly what she wanted him to do, but she did know that she didn’t want to _tell_ him what to do. That would spoil it. Telling him what to do was not the point. She didn’t want to be in control. She wanted to trust _him._ Utterly. She gazed at him with wide, pleading eyes.

As he peered into her eyes, he suddenly seemed to understand. An evil smirk spread across his face. He ran his hands down her arms quickly. She sucked in her breath. He enclosed her wrists in his hands and brought her arms above her head, transferring both wrists into the grip of his left hand.

She closed her eyes in bliss. _“Yes,”_ she moaned. This was definitely what she wanted.

He chuckled and leaned in to give her a firm, devouring kiss that would probably leave a mark—at least she hoped it did. She struggled beneath him, trying to move her arms, to see if she could break free of his grip. She didn’t actually want to succeed, not at all. She wanted to reassure herself that she _couldn’t,_ that he _was_ too strong. She wanted to feel the restriction with her sense of touch, to _know_ it was there, and to give in to it.

His grip on her slim wrists increased with her movement, exactly as she wanted. _Yes._ She couldn’t get loose even if she wanted to. He had her pinned good and she now had no choice but to give him the absolute trust that was so intoxicating to her. A sigh of contentment escaped her mouth as her struggles stopped. She relaxed against the mattress.

He chuckled again. “Satisfied you can’t get out?” he hissed in her ear.

“Yes,” she whispered back. Oh yes, he knew what she loved, and he loved to give it to her. She gazed into his eyes longingly. Her lips parted just a bit as she exhaled through her mouth.

He leaned forward and pressed his mouth against hers, not even letting her close her lips first, just devouring her as she pulled forward to meet and devour him in return. He stroked his free hand across her hips, her lower abdomen, the inside of her thighs, torturing her with the sensation while refusing to give her anything approaching completion. She could feel the tip of him in position, and tried time and again to shift downward to take him in, but whenever she did, he captured her lips with his and tightened his grip on her wrists to prevent her from moving—a wicked, torturing smile on his face every time he pulled back from kissing her. He didn’t want her to be the one to control this, and she knew it.

For what seemed like an eternity, there was nothing but her increasingly desperate moans, their lips, and the heat of skin on skin. They couldn’t get close enough to each other—at least like this, at least not as long as he insisted on tormenting her.

“Flynn please stop doing this to me,” she moaned, pulling away from a particularly deep kiss that still wasn’t enough.

“Stop doing what?” he said in a hiss. He leaned in and nipped her lightly.

She gasped. “Stop torturing me.”

His hand trailed across the inside of her left thigh, deliberately close but not _there._ “I’m not sure you understand, my dear,” he drawled around a smirk, “but you’re not calling the shots.”

She groaned in dissatisfaction. _“Please. Please_ take me.”

His wandering hand stopped moving on her thigh. He drew back and looked at her, smiling wickedly. “You really want me to?” he teased.

_“Yes.”_

He smirked. “All right. I’m _ready_ to take you.”

With his one free hand, he pushed her leg aside hard. Instinctively she moved her right leg as well, opening herself to him as far as she could. He slid in quickly and easily. She gave a gasp of breath in relief, but the relief did not last long. She wanted him to move. Involuntarily she tried to pull her wrists free of his grip so that she could reach around his back and feel his muscles ripple. Her movement was unexpected and forceful, taking him by surprise, so she was able to move her wrists down in front of her face. But he quickly recovered his strength and pulled her arms above her head once more. She closed her eyes in bliss as a shiver rippled down her. Then—at last—he began to move.

She loved every second of it, every time they did this, for the feeling of being connected to him in every possible way. Even after being with him for almost two years now, she was awed at that feeling, but it seemed that tonight especially, it was absolutely wonderful, a sweet sweet surrender that she _loved_ being able to offer to him. –Not just for herself, but because she knew what it meant to him too—and what it _did_ to him.

He kept his eyes focused on her, watching ecstasy build in her face toward a crest that they both knew was coming. He briefly reflected on how lucky he was to have found her after years of loneliness, isolation, and the replacement of real love with love of money and influence. She was so special and so beautiful. As he gazed down on her face—her eyes wide and her lips parted as quick breaths passed over them—he relished the way she was clearly enjoying this position. _She_ was giving _him_ total trust over her body. _He,_ the gifted kid no foster parents trusted because he was “weird,” and whose previous career of corruption and self-interest would generally suggest that no one _should_ trust him. She had seen past that, identified it for the coping mechanism that it was, picked out the good person underneath, and trusted him anyway. It was an incredible feeling.

Now she trusted him over and over with her whole person. She put herself into the most vulnerable positions, let him hold her arms immobile, opened herself up to him as much as possible, just to revel in the fact that she _could._ And he _loved_ it. He loved creating this delicious friction deep inside her. He loved making her toes curl, her breaths catch, her whole body tremble as a reward for that special, unique _trust._ It always, _always_ sent him over the edge to watch it happen to her and know that _he_ did it, that he could make her feel _that._

And it was soon going to happen. They were quickly approaching their peaks. She kept struggling beneath him, almost moving her arms again, though she wasn’t trying to. She just couldn’t help it. She did move her legs, in turn bending her knees, stretching her legs and feet while curling her toes, and finally wrapping them around him to dissipate the tension.

Her face clenched up and her breath went ragged as she had her release first. He felt her whole form shake and shudder beneath him and around him. The sight, the sound, and the sensation were too much for him. He let go, breaking his grip on her wrists at last as he emptied himself, feeling her now free hands find him and delicate fingers lace into his hair.

Neither one could ever say how long this period lasted, when total ecstasy gradually settled into a warm, satisfied, possessive desire for closeness and affection. But when it did, and they were finally able to speak again, he turned to her with contentment and not a little smugness written on his face and said teasingly,

“Was that what you wanted?”

She turned over and grinned at him. “All evening long.”

He smirked. “I just bet you did. Thought about it the whole time, did you?”

She smirked back. “More or less. Does that surprise you?”

“Nope, not at all,” he said. “I don’t blame you, either.” He winked, knowing that she would love the narcissistic implications of the remark.

He was not wrong. She raised an eyebrow and lunged, attacking him immediately to try to wrestle with him. She knew how he would respond, she knew what the outcome would be, and sure enough, when his large hands found her arms and pinned her body next to him so she couldn’t move, she gave a sigh of contentment and relaxed. He smirked again and planted a kiss on her lips.

A contented smile formed on her lips as he broke away, and she snuggled against him, trying to get close. “Round two in a bit?” she murmured against his chest.

Wow, he thought, she _had_ been busy with her thoughts. He winked at her and began to caress her back gently. He _certainly_ had no objections.


	17. Persuasive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the alluded-to "round two." It is also NSFW. And I can't even describe this fetish. Political insider fetish? Power fetish? I guess. Also, Dom/sub.

Rapunzel looked at Flynn as he held her—just held her, gently and contentedly, gazing into her eyes in the soft low light of their bedroom. A furtive gaze at the bedside clock told them that it had been about forty minutes since they had… _finished._ She was not so sure that she would be up for a second round after all. It took them a little time to become ready again, sometimes a full night’s sleep. That didn’t matter, though. If they wanted to, they would. If not, well, she would still enjoy this calm, sensual period.

His gaze traveled over her—her tousled dark hair, the feminine curves that she had developed during pregnancy and never fully lost, the diamond engagement ring and gold wedding band shining on her thin finger. This life had fit them both, he thought as he focused on the rings. For two people with childhoods spent in unhappy bonds of obligation—whether with an abusive mother or distrustful foster families—this happy bond of choice was a thrilling thing every day.

Whatever issues they had once had as individuals, even then they _wanted_ to love. They always had. And once their mental barriers to loving were broken down, once they met and found in each other a person worth the intense committed love they longed to give, the two of them fell into it naturally. Marriage fit them perfectly, as perfectly as its symbols fit their fingers.

While he was enjoying his pleasant reverie, her thoughts were turning in a somewhat different direction. Now that she was not so distracted with immediate need for him, she was thinking more about what he had told her before they got started—his intention to return to a “new and improved” form of his previous work for a day-to-day job. The full implications of his idea were hitting her. It was not just _his_ career path that would change if he did that.

He suddenly noticed that she seemed to be distracted with her own thoughts, and not in the serene, contented way that he was. “What’s the matter?” he asked her.

Well, that was impressive. She was pretty sure that she had not looked concerned, and she _knew_ she had not been biting her lip or avoiding his gaze or any such obvious indicator of preoccupation—but he had still figured it out. He was uncannily good at detecting such things.

“I was just thinking about what you said earlier,” she said. “About your idea to go back to an office job.”

“Ah,” he said. He paused, trying, perhaps, to read her thoughts through her eyes. “Does that bother you?”

“I was just thinking about how it would affect me,” she said.

He propped himself up on his right side, his elbow mashing into the pillow. “How?”

She gazed deeply into his eyes. Might as well be completely honest about this. Keeping her concerns to herself had never worked out well for her before. “It’s Kate,” she said. “If you go to work in DC again, someone’s going to need to take care of her during the day. I don’t want her in daycare. I think if it’s possible financially, little kids should have a parent with them—and for us it’s certainly possible.”

“Well, I agree,” he said slowly. “Go on.”

“So far that has been you, at least during the morning when I was at work… but it sounds like this work you want to do would mean a lot more to you than my job means to me. I mean, I like my job, but it’s mostly just a job. What you want to do—well, it’s the kind of lobbying you _wanted_ to do when you first came to DC, and now you have the cred as a writer to do it. I know what that must mean to you, and I don’t want to stand in your way when _my_ job means nothing close to that.”

He gave her a crooked smile and chuckled lightly. “Rapunzel, if what you’re saying is that you want to quit your job and stay at home with her, you don’t need to get my approval. I may have been the stay-at-home parent, but I know you’re just as competent.” He stroked her side gently with his free hand.

“It’s not that,” she said.

She paused, trying to decide about whether to say this now. Surprisingly, he had completely missed the target. That was unusual—but, she supposed, his _was_ a reasonable guess, given how insecure she used to be and once in a while still was. What she was actually going to tell him wasn’t something even he could readily guess. But she realized in a split second that she had committed to telling him this as soon as she started the conversation. She had to see it through.

“Actually, I don’t _want_ to be a housewife.” She paused again, collecting her thoughts. “I’m just torn. I know that being married and being a parent means that it’s not all about _me_ and what _I_ want anymore. But I… Flynn, I’ve heard that it’s not easy for a woman to get back into the workforce if she leaves it for a long time, and I just… don’t know what I should do.” She finally closed her lips and stared at him, wide-eyed.

He looked at her, furrowing his brow in thought. She looked at him, trying hard to gauge his opinion of what she had just said. He didn’t seem to be bothered. He just looked thoughtful, as if trying to work out a solution to the conundrum.

Finally he spoke again. “You could work at home, you know. Like I’ve been doing. Set your own hours, not have a boss breathing down your neck….”

“But doing what? I’ve never made any contacts in the private art gallery world….”

“I have.”

Her eyes opened wide in surprise. “You’re kidding. How? Who?”

“Well, not ‘private art gallery,’ exactly, but my agent has some other clients who write for the graphic novel industry, so he has contacts in that type of publishing too. I expect he could get you into illustration if that’s what you wanted, and you could work right out of the condo.” He paused. “I don’t know if you’d want to do that, but it’s an option.”

Rapunzel started to beam. “I’d love that! You know I read those! I’ve read them since I was a freshman in college.”

“I do know,” he said. He remembered the night they had met, going to the small, shabby apartment in Silver Spring that she rented then. She had a shelf on her bookcase full of manga issues and graphic novels, and they were now in the living room here.

“That is much closer to the type of art that I do for my own enjoyment,” she continued, grinning from ear to ear. “Commercial graphic design is just… a different thing. It’s about selling a product, not telling a story. I mean, illustrations need to be good to sell the books, but it’s still about telling a story.”

“There you go,” he said with a smile. “I think you’d be really happy doing that, too.”

She was already happy. She was feeling much better about the whole situation, and with her happiness growing, her anxiety was rapidly sublimating away. She looked at him again, the smile on her face suddenly turning wicked. “You know what we need? A graphic novel about a rich DC hotshot, his girlfriend-turned-wife, and their adventures with all the various characters you’d encounter in politics. And it should be rated NC-17. But _I’m_ not a writer, you know. I draw.”

Flynn raised an eyebrow and broke into a smirk. “You want to _collaborate_ with me on that, do you?” His hand began to ease down her side toward her waistline.

She noticed what he was doing but chose not to comment on it. “Maybe.”

His fingers brushed over the heated skin, and he drew closer to her. “What if the DC hotshot said it wasn’t anyone else’s business? Didn’t want outsiders to know the _NC-17_ details?”

His thoughtful, considerate, contented mood was giving way rapidly to smug cockiness, and it had started as soon as she had called him that. Like her, he _had_ been thinking that he could wait till morning to go a second round, but at this point, he was starting to want to make her feel those thrills all over again.

“Hmm… perhaps you would have a point,” she said thoughtfully, looking at him from beneath her eyelashes. “But I would still want to work with you on the ‘story.’ Even if we just write it for ourselves.” She smiled seductively at him.

He removed his bent elbow from the pillow and leaned over toward her. Putting a hand on her right shoulder, he rolled her over on her back again and gazed at her. She was still completely naked, her skin glowing almost golden in the dim lamplight. His gaze caught the rings on her finger once again, and something in his lower body seemed to twist pleasantly at that sight and the knowledge that the matching one rested on his finger. This time it was no tender postcoital reverie about their relationship that the sight of her rings set off, but rather, a possessive desire for her like he had been feeling for most of the night.

He leaned down and kissed her cheek lightly, almost chastely… at least in touch. _Not_ in intention. His intention was rather the opposite of platonic. It was a soft brush of lips against skin that he _knew_ would make her want more.

And sure enough, she let out a groan of complaint. “Don’t tease me like that,” she said.

“Why not?” he murmured close to her face. “You like it.” He drew back and smirked at her.

She stared back at him challengingly, but she could not deny it, nor did she want to.

He leaned in more deeply, almost—but not quite—covering her upper body, and began to lightly kiss her nose, her cheeks, her lips…. She responded with pleasure, parting her lips for him and raising her hands to his face to keep him in place. When he broke away and lay down on his right side again, she groaned in dissatisfaction once more. But she didn’t know what he intended to do next, though she would find out.

Gently, sensuously, he stroked a single finger over her side. He knew the effect that would have on her, and he was not wrong. She closed her eyes in bliss and opened her mouth just a little to let a soft moan escape. He continued with his caresses, drawing circles on her skin with his fingertips.

Another cry, and she rolled over on her side and moved next to him. Her bare skin, still slightly sweaty, pressed hotly against his own, and he swallowed hard.

She threw a leg across his waist, trailing her own dampness across his hip, and eased on top of him, rolling him onto his back. That was it—there was no denying what was happening to him, what she was _making_ happen with her little moans and motions and the heat of her body. As he felt himself grow hard again, he knew that she had to feel it too. It was right there against her other leg….

She suddenly opened her eyes as the awareness hit her. They grew wide with surprise—but then something else filled her gaze: smugness. Her mouth began to curve into a smirk. “Wow,” she said softly, pressing against him with her leg, grinning at him, and stifling laughter.

Seeing that smirk on her face made Flynn clear out the warm fog that had begun to redevelop in his mind. It was distracting enough that his body had started doing its own thing. It was very embarrassing to his pride that it happened while she was in a perfect position to feel the evidence. But for her to find it _amusing_ was just too much. He was going to have _her_ gasping for _him_ once more, and this time, he was not even going to follow her nonverbal cues as he had done the first time this evening. She liked how he looked when he was dressed up, did she? Well, he may have never been overly fond of wearing formal clothing, but if she thought it made him look like a “DC hotshot,” and was as turned on by that notion as she obviously was, then he could live with that… and that was _exactly_ what she would get this time. He would just have to find the right words to act the part.

The idea he’d had that night at the lecture—the plan that had started their whole conversation that led into this—came back to his mind. After a year and a half of a career of using words only to inform and amuse, once again he was going to use words to persuade and seize control of a situation. _Why not get a little back in practice?_ he thought, a grin forming on his face.

 _She likes alpha traits. Make this into one._ “That should come as no surprise,” he said. “You know I have stamina.”

She grinned and reddened. “I just thought I was the one with the serious need tonight. I had no idea I could do that to you so fast.” She winked and leaned over him.

Flynn threw his right arm tightly around her and held her in place on top of him. _A bit of flattery, though true._ “You shouldn’t underestimate your abilities,” he said smoothly, his face inches from hers as he gazed intensely into her eyes.

She smirked. “I guess not.”

“But you definitely shouldn’t underestimate _me…_ or what _I’m_ going to do to _you.”_

“And what’s that?” she breathed, their gaze locked together.

“Nail you properly like a ‘DC hotshot’ _should_ do,” he hissed. His grip on her tightened, and before she could even so much as squirm, he rolled in the bed, flipping them both over so that he was on top.

Rapunzel’s breaths started coming quickly as she found herself under him once again. Her heart began to beat faster, and her skin flushed pink. For a moment she seemed to lose control of herself entirely, leaning forward ever so slightly as if trying to kiss him, but then she fell back onto the mattress and began to take deep breaths to calm herself.

He could not help but find her internal struggle highly amusing, and moreover, playing hard-to-get was a familiar type of game to them both. They both loved the surrender to the other, and yet the feeling of utter safety, with which the game always culminated. He knew what she was doing, and it suited his fantasy perfectly.

“That’s not going to work, love,” he purred, smiling knowingly. “You can try, but you and I both know this is merely an idle threat. You wouldn’t _filibuster_ something you _wanted,”_ he said in a hiss.

At that little comment—that particular metaphor—something suddenly occurred to her. Understanding of exactly what he was doing dawned in her eyes. “Flynn. You promised you’d never lobby me,” she said huskily.

“Did not,” he said, grinning. “I said I wouldn’t try to buy your affections. I _never_ said I wouldn’t use my natural persuasive abilities… especially once I _did_ have you. And _most_ especially since you love it so much.”

She gazed back at him. It was true. His way with words and, more significantly, his gift for understanding, were what had drawn her to him in the first place. A gasp of need and desire escaped her mouth. Lunging forward, rising off the mattress an inch, she kissed him on the cheek, the side of his neck, his shoulder…. She pressed herself against him from her chest all the way down to her thighs and let out a groan at the contact.

He held her tighter, or she drew even closer—or both—and then he felt something against his chest. “Your heart is pounding,” he remarked. He leaned over and whispered in her ear, “I bet you can feel it everywhere.” He drew back and smirked knowingly at her, not doubting for a moment that he was correct.

Almost involuntarily she closed her eyes, shutting off visual input. Her other senses seemed to heighten to compensate, and she realized at once that his guess was correct. She heard her blood rushing deep in her ears and felt it pulsing through her entire body, carrying oxygen, making her warm and eager. She opened her eyes again and gazed into his brown ones.

Mere minutes ago Flynn had sworn to himself not to follow her cues this time, and he quickly reminded himself of this intention. He met her gaze and made a point of returning it not with a desirous pleading look of his own, but with something approaching a leer. A possessive, knowing, über-confident gaze. She shivered beneath it, unable to look away, mesmerized.

He moved his hands down her hips, across her thighs, and spread her legs apart, raising an eyebrow at her at what he found there. “That’s impressive,” he murmured, making her blush and him smirk cockily in return. But he hardly waited a moment before pushing forward— _hard—_ and filling her. He didn’t wait another moment before starting to move, just as quickly and aggressively.

His hands found her hips and gripped them very tightly to hold her in place, fingers digging in, pushing her down against the mattress. She was sure he was going to break the bedsprings this way; she could hear them creaking faintly every time he….

He removed his right hand from her hip and put it between her legs, pressing hard in a rhythm. That was torment. A smothered cry escaped her mouth. She grabbed at his shoulders and back and tried to wrap her legs around him to have more control over what his hand did, but as soon as she got one leg around his waist, she lost her balance and they half-tumbled onto that side.

He chuckled, pleased at her reactions. His hand moved away, leaving her very dissatisfied in its wake, and grabbed her free hip once more. With a powerful motion, he rolled again, positioning himself on top as before. He continued with his movements.

Rapunzel wanted his hand back where it had been. Before they had fallen on their sides and he had moved his hand, she thought that if he had continued with that, she would have reached climax in little more than a minute. Now there was just a throbbing longing.

He knew that. He knew what he had been doing to her, and he didn’t want her to peak so early. He wanted it to be later—and fuller.

She began to heave breaths through her mouth, clutching at his shoulders. She was _just_ able to wait until he had pushed forward before trying again—lifting both legs at once and, this time, succeeding in wrapping them around his waist.

For a fraction of a second he seemed to be thinking. Then his hands left her hips, slid in between her thighs, and forced her to loosen her hold on his waist. Another movement—and his right hand was between her legs again while his left gripped her hip very hard.

His gaze was intense and assertive as he recommenced his touches. His fingers were pressing faster, harder, and, it seemed to her, more _pointedly_ than before. It was true; this time he _did_ intend to bring her to peak. Her feeling of urgency surged forth once again as if he had never paused in the first place. Her breaths began to shorten and come faster, intermingled with audible moans and high-pitched grunts.

A push so hard that she felt that she would go right through the mattress. A deliberate touch of a coarse-tipped finger. A faint moan from him. A twitch of his whole body and a feeling of warmth in her. At last— _at last—_ she felt the waves break over her body, and they were so intense that she lifted her legs right off the mattress once more, her left giving an involuntary jerky kick before she wrapped them both around him, this time with no counteraction from him. She reached as far down his back as she could, clutching at him desperately. A scream burbled up from deep in her lungs—she had to remember the baby _(that we made like this!_ her mind shouted exultantly) sleeping just down the short hallway—and escaped her mouth as a muffled cry that sounded like his name.

He collapsed on her, his chest heaving, a soothing, appealing rhythm thrumming with her own. He ran his hands up her sides, across her chest, up her neck, finally settling on each side of her face. She rested her arms comfortably around his lower back.

 _Heat._  They thought they had generated a lot of body heat the first time. That was nothing compared to the aftermath of this far more aggressive act. Sweat gleamed on their bodies in the dim light. Her hair was thoroughly mussed, and his too looked unkempt now. _Oh well._ They could shower in the morning.

As they slowly came down once more, a feeling of empowerment settled over Rapunzel. It might have seemed strange that empowerment could be blended, and coexist, with the feeling of surrender and possession that she often felt (and felt very much tonight, especially after this second time), but there it was. Every time they made love—every time they were affectionate at all, really, but especially this most intimate way—that itself was evidence of how far they had come as individuals and as a couple. It was empowering to experience this with him, and it was empowering to be able to make him feel the things she knew he had just felt.

Flynn, in the meantime, was feeling extremely pleased and satisfied. Watching Rapunzel come undone was his favorite part of this, and he was _very_ proud to have made her come undone in the specific way that he had this time. Jerking, clutching, almost _screaming—_ that was very satisfying to him.

“Well,” he asked once he could speak again, “how was _that?”_

She peered back at him with a sardonic smile. “Do I have to _say?”_

He smirked. “I suppose not. The smothered scream and desperate grabbing told me all I needed to know.” He winked at her. “I’ll definitely keep this in mind: ‘Rapunzel loves it when I am rough and assertive after playing the persuasive power-broker.’ _Duly noted.”_

At any other time she might have denied it blushingly, but at the moment, she didn’t even want to play that game. She merely gazed back at him, grinning, silently assenting to his words. “It’s what you are,” she said mildly. “Persuasive, I mean. And assertive. And I _do_ love it,” she added in a whisper.

“I know you do… and I rather like it when _you_ put these ideas into my head with that _active_ imagination of yours. We collaborate pretty well, I’d say. Maybe we _should_ write that book of yours.” He winked again, gave her a quick kiss, and rolled off her to turn off the bedside lamp.

In the comfortable darkness, he settled down next to her once more. They were sapped of energy by now, and very quickly they felt themselves beginning to nod off. She curled up as close as possible, and he wrapped an arm around her to keep her next to him all night. They usually did wake up snuggled together when they fell asleep that way, and it would be a perfect start to what promised to be a very happy period in their lives.


	18. Privileged

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, NSFW! This one's office sex. That'll be the trifecta of my whole "powerful connected man" thing for this story.

Rapunzel had known for a long time that Flynn was an ambitious, confident person. He did not settle, instead either persevering until he got what he wanted or discarding the entire goal and moving on—and he could make all-or-nothing ambition actually viable. He planned for every contingency that he could think of, and his persuasive skills—calm reasoning at first, aggressive tactics if needed—generally worked well on people, as she could personally attest. She was especially glad that he had refused to compromise on being with her; he had pushed her to embrace her desires rather than settling for a friendship with her that left them both dissatisfied and their issues unresolved, and they were definitely better off for it.

His ability to form intricate goal-oriented plans and his understanding of the human mind were a skill set that made him a natural writer. They also made him a natural lobbyist, which was a big part of why he returned to that after a year and a half of writing full-time. He was good at it, and rather than making the mistake of settling for big money (as he had done in the first incarnation of this career), he was working on policy that mattered to him. It was an interesting dichotomy to Rapunzel that, when it came to his _personal_ desires, he couldn’t settle, but in his day-to-day work, he willingly embraced compromise on occasion.

 _Or does he?_ she wondered one afternoon as she waited for him to return from the office in DC. It was true that, in the world of policy, no one got everything they wanted—immediately, at least. But Rapunzel could not help but think that her husband was never quite satisfied with partial successes even at work. He might get 50 percent of what he wanted in a particular legislative bill, but he would still push for the remaining 50 percent (and likely more) for the next vote.

That particular trail of thought brought a frown to her face. It had been a short three months since he had started working in the metro area full-time again, and he was working a _lot._ She knew it made him happy, and she was happy with her career as well. She had not minded resigning her former part-time job at a web and ad firm, and she already had a contract to illustrate a graphic novel for a proposed new trilogy. She just missed him during the day. It was one thing to work mornings while he stayed home; they still got to eat every meal together. It was quite another for him to be away from the condo for over eight hours a day.

She glanced at the nearest clock and sighed. It was only three in the afternoon. It would still be another two hours before he even left the office, and then there was the commute to Fairfax—and that was if he actually _did_ leave at five. Sometimes he didn’t.

She got up from the sectional in the living room and wandered into the increasingly crowded room that served as the baby’s nursery and, now, her art studio. _We really should look into a bigger condo,_ she thought idly as she sat down at her artist’s desk. _He got this one as a childless bachelor. Things are different now._ She took out her pencil and took out the last sketch that she had been working on, which was about halfway finished.

Heaving a sigh, she started to draw listlessly. It was hard to focus. Her mind simply would not enter into the artist’s state of consciousness. Instead of delving into the imaginary world of the graphic novel that this sketch illustrated, she was still fixated upon Flynn’s return from his office.

 _This isn’t going to work,_ she thought after a few minutes. She set down the pencil and covered up the sketch again as she leaned back in her chair, staring at the ceiling.

A childlike yawn from the nearby crib grabbed her attention. Kate was waking up from her mid-afternoon nap. Rapunzel got up from the desk and hurried over to the crib to get the baby before she started crying unhappily. The child, born premature, was still small for her age, but she was starting to talk. Rapunzel cuddled the baby close and left the room. There certainly was no point in trying to draw anything now. She went back to the living room.

She had left her phone on a side table, and just as she sat back down on the sofa, it buzzed to indicate a new text message. She reached over and looked at the message. It was from Flynn.

“Planning to stay till seven. Going to grab food in DC so feel free to eat w/o me. Love you and see you tonight”

Rapunzel felt a flash of irritation surge over her. What was the point in his working after hours? She knew quite well—he had said as much—that there were no votes scheduled on anything to do with education policy, literacy, or gifted child opportunities, the topics that he worked on. If he needed to plan a strategy or work out what specific bill items he wanted to lobby for at a future date, there was no reason he could not do such things at home… unless, she supposed, he wanted to strategize with the other three people he now worked with and couldn’t do it remotely.

Still, she was not even slightly happy about the prospect of missing _two_ meals with him today and not seeing him for another four or five hours. And right then, she decided that this wasn’t going to happen. She was going to go into the city herself and pay him an unexpected visit. She got up and headed to the bedroom to get some sharper-looking clothes from her closet.

* * *

Over the course of the past year and a half, Rapunzel had finally found the time to learn how to drive, and meanwhile, he had bought a new car for himself, a more serious-looking vehicle than the sporty Corvette he had used. He had offered to buy her a new one when she got her license, but she was still naturally frugal and preferred the cute sports car. She was confident in her driving, as she strapped Kate into her infant seat, but she still did not like driving in the city, so she went to the Metro stop and parked there before getting on the familiar orange line.

At this time of day, the subway cars were sparsely filled, though still largely with a mix of students and professionals. A few people glanced thoughtfully at her as she sat quietly with the baby in her stroller, but she was used to that now. When Flynn’s tell-all book and first novel had been published, they had both appeared in a few interviews that had undoubtedly been of interest locally, and recently, _Politico_ had even done a small feature on his return to this line of work. The thought made her proud, even a bit smug. She remembered when he first mentioned this ambition to her and she confessed that she really liked the thought of him as a “DC hotshot,” and here she was, going into the city to see him all suited up and in his element as that. –But before she could get too far down the mental track with that thought, she quickly recalled that, however light the subway usage was at the moment, she _was_ still in public. This was not the time for thoughts like that.

The ride was soon over, though, and when she emerged into the sunlight again, it was a short, pleasant walk to his office. A smile formed on her face at the thought that she would get to see him in just a few minutes.

Like most offices on this famous (or perhaps infamous) DC street, Flynn’s firm was housed in a large, modern building with dozens of others. The building had a sparsely furnished foyer with a water cooler, magazine rack, a few chairs, a table, and a list of office numbers for all the policy and lobbying firms that operated here. Rapunzel went over to the elevator and waited as it descended to the ground level.

The doors opened up, and a tall woman with braided naturally platinum-blonde hair instantly met Rapunzel’s eyes. “Hi, Elsa,” Rapunzel greeted, breaking into a smile.

Elsa Rendell was self-employed, the sole worker in her climate policy firm (though her college-age sister sometimes showed up to help), and the two had struck up a friendship on a chance meeting when Flynn was getting his office ready for moving in. It turned out that they had similar backgrounds in some respects, growing up in remote, wild places, losing their parents too soon, and being a bit socially awkward as a result of their childhood isolation. Rapunzel, when happy, was more exuberant than Elsa, but they still shared that core of feeling different from most others—a core that she shared with Flynn too, which made her hopeful that this would be a good friendship.

“Hi,” Elsa said somewhat consciously. She smiled at Rapunzel. “I wish I could stay and chat, but I have a meeting down the street. I assume you’re here to see your husband, anyway…?”

Rapunzel grinned and nodded in confirmation. She felt her face reddening, which took her by surprise—why would that happen? She had not been thinking of _doing_ anything that might warrant such a reaction. She hadn’t _let_ herself get to that point in her musings on the subway, and in any case, this was his _office,_ and these were normal working hours. She had come here to see him, spend the rest of the day with him, and convince him to go back at a normal quitting time, not to—

Elsa raised her eyebrows for a fraction of a second, but she quickly restored her facial expression, evidently uncomfortable at the meaning of Rapunzel’s faint blushing. She glanced at Kate, who was sucking on her bottle drowsily. “She’s so pretty,” Elsa remarked. “Such thick hair, and her eyes look greener every day.”

It was true. Kate’s eyes were clearly green like her mother’s, but the hair had turned out almost identical in color to her father’s, though wavy. Rapunzel bent down to the baby’s stroller and stroked the soft hair proudly, prompting the child to fully close her eyes and doze off once more. As Elsa headed out the door, Rapunzel remembered the elevator and pushed the button to open the doors again. She waited for it to ascend to Flynn’s floor.

Flynn’s colleagues—or, since he was the senior partner, employees—consisted of a married straight couple and a single man. They were all a couple of years younger than he was, the bachelor being the youngest person in the firm and just out of college. He was also the one manning the front desk at the firm’s suite of a few rooms, and, knowing Rapunzel, he directed her to the largest office, informing her that Flynn was in the middle of “research.” This revelation peeved her inwardly a bit; if all he needed to do was pore over existing policy, analysis, or whatever he was researching, he could surely do that at home. Without knocking, she turned the doorknob and went in.

His legs and feet were propped on his executive desk and his chair was tilted back. His suit jacket hung from a coat stand next to a plant, leaving him suited only in the vest, and he had unbuttoned and rolled up his shirtsleeves to the elbows. In one hand he held a half-finished glass of whiskey. In his other hand was a tablet PC. He looked _great,_ Rapunzel thought unbidden, her heart pumping a little harder. Dressy-casual and supremely confident, master of this domain—which he in fact was, she thought.

His gaze was fixed intently upon whatever he had pulled up on the tablet to research—but as Rapunzel pushed the stroller into the office, his eyebrows went up. He set down the tablet and took his feet off his desk as she approached.

“Well,” he said, “this is unexpected. Everything okay?”

She looked him straight in the eye. “Everything is fine—except for that text you sent me about not leaving here until seven o’clock.”

For a moment he looked sheepish, but it quickly mutated into a grin. “I’m flattered to know I’m missed that much—though I can’t say I’m surprised.”

Her eyes popped. _Amazing,_ she thought, though not with irritation. In fact, she felt the smidgens of annoyance vanishing as he continued to look at her with that cocky, flirty smile. “How very arrogant of you,” she said, the corners of her mouth tugging upward as well.

He merely shrugged and sipped his whiskey, continuing to gaze at her.

She suddenly felt conscious. He was looking at her as if the image of her in his mind’s eye were rather less dressed than she actually was, and the grin on his face was widening almost—but not quite—imperceptibly. _Surely he wouldn’t—_ but she stopped the thought before it could complete, because she rather suspected that Flynn _would,_ even in his work office. She also knew that if he wanted to, she would not stop him.

“So,” she said firmly, trying to get back to her original purpose, “I would like to know just why you thought you had to stay here two extra hours. I’ve already been told that you’re doing research.” She gazed at the tablet, which still had a cognitive psychology study pulled up. “Why do you have to be here to read?” A bad thought crossed her mind. “Is it distracting at home?”

The question at least got his attention away from whatever else he was thinking of. “Of course not,” he said at once. “I honestly just didn’t want to go home and then shut myself away for however long while I read papers. I figure that home is for family time and this office is for work.”

Rapunzel felt mildly relieved, but she still was not persuaded that the late hours were necessary. “I have a studio at home, and I work when I need to,” she pointed out. “You own this firm. It’s not like a boss is asking you to do work outside work hours. I’d rather have you there, even if you’re researching. That home-office division is not that clear-cut for people like us.”

He hesitated for a moment, fingering the rim of his glass. “Well,” he said, “if it really won’t bother you, then sure.” He glanced at the stroller, where Kate snoozed quietly beneath a sun-blocking hood, and smiled. “I’d definitely rather be at home in the evening.” He paused to look at the wall clock. “But we still have a little over an hour before the office closes,” he said, his smile morphing into the grin again. “There’s simply no point in you leaving separately.”

“What am I supposed to do for an hour?” As she posed the question, she knew perfectly well how he was likely to respond, but it was off her lips now.

He sipped his drink again and placed it on the desk before swiveling in his chair to look face-to-face at her. “You know,” he remarked with a deliberate pause, “I think you have a good point about the home-office division not being very clear-cut. If we can work at home, well, you see what I’m implying?” In case there was any doubt, he gave her a flirty, lewd wink.

She felt herself grow fiery red. “Flynn, people could walk in!”

He smirked. “This is my office, and I have the privilege of using it for my own purposes.” He pushed his chair back and got up, continuing to smirk as he advanced upon her. “If anyone walks in without knocking, it’s their problem.”

She found herself stepping backward, but the plant and coat rack were behind her. She fumbled with the metal coat rack as she bumped into it, steadying it to prevent it from toppling, and sidestepped away from him. “I walked in without knocking,” she said.

He grinned wolfishly. “And look what’s going to come of that.” Before she could react, he grabbed her around the waist, hands instantly upon her ass. He quickly whirled her around and against the back of his desk, but she remained upright.

She loved how his hands felt on her—but…. “I cannot believe you!” she exclaimed, trying not to think too hard about the sensation. “How long have I been here, a few minutes? Have you just been sitting in here all afternoon fantasizing about me?”

“I do fantasize about you a lot, but once you showed up in that skirt and those boots”—she self-consciously recalled what had been going through her mind when she chose the above-the-knee skirt, ankle boots, and blouse—“it really didn’t take that long.” He trailed a hand up her back and side, gazing at her with eyes darkened by desire. “You were fantasizing about me too.”

“You’re just saying that,” she said at once, but she felt the heat of her flush deepen.

He leaned closer to her, and she felt herself pushed up harder against the desk. “I _know_ you were. You almost got sidetracked when you first came in. Thought about me all the way here, didn’t you?” He paused for a moment as the expression of light dawning filled his face. “And _my_ appearance turned you on instantly too, didn’t it? I caught the way you were looking at me.”

She wasn’t sure at this point if she was playing along with him or trying futilely to deny what he said. “You mean with your jacket off, drinking, and your feet propped on the desk?” she said in a tone of forced scoffing, but she knew that it was a little _too_ forced. She _had_ liked his look.

“That’s my privilege too, all of it—and that’s why you liked it, I bet.” Flynn leaned in closer, his breath on her face. “I haven’t forgotten that it turns you on to think of me here… and I have a _great_ idea.” His eyes were glittering.

“You wouldn’t dare.” She found, to her dismay, that her voice was breathless. “You _say_ it wouldn’t bother you, but I don’t believe you.” A sudden flash of inspiration occurred to her. “Even if nobody did see, I could tell people.”

He chuckled softly. “You wouldn’t, though,” he purred. “It would embarrass you too much.” He leaned down and planted a hard kiss on her mouth. “Now here’s my idea,” he said deliberately. “I’m the—how did you put it that time—‘DC hotshot,’ actually _on K Street_ now. I want you, and since I’m so ‘privileged and powerful’ in this town, I’m going to have you.” He drew back and regarded her with a smirk as he ran his hand up her side deliberately.

She tried to back away, but the desk was blocking her. She found herself edging on top of the piece of furniture and tried to avoid the items he had left there—his tablet, his computer, his glass—

He reached down, picked up the glass, downed the remainder in one shot, and put the glass down hard on the desktop, making the other contents rattle. He grabbed her shoulders and pushed her down, then put a hand on her thigh and stroked, pushing up her skirt as he did.

She glanced at the floor-length windows with their open blinds and gauzy curtains, and a horrifying idea crossed her mind. “Can people see through your windows?” she exclaimed suddenly.

He stopped the slow strokes of his hand and shrugged cockily. “I really have no idea. It’s conceivable.” He flashed a white smile at her and resumed his motions, holding her down on the desk with his other hand.

Rapunzel was amazed. Was he actually an exhibitionist, or was the arrogant lack of concern part of his roleplay? He _was_ confident, and he _was_ determined to get what he wanted…. Where did the real personality end and the persona begin? She glanced a few inches over at the glass, now empty except for chunks of ice. “Are you drunk?” she asked as the idea crossed her mind.

He flashed that smile again. “No, but I am feeling a little… uninhibited. It’s a good thing.”

Making one last feeble stand, she reached out and pushed against his chest with both hands. The suddenness of it took him by surprise and enabled her to temporarily scoot away from him, but there was nowhere for her to go except farther back on the desk.

He stared at her for a moment before taking his necktie and unknotting it expertly, then pulling it around his collar. He held the strip of silk in hand, regarding her contemplatively for another moment, the smirk reappearing on his face as they both comprehended what he was about to do.

Before she could stop him, Flynn reached for her wrists and wrapped the tie around them several times, holding them above her head. He tied it in a neat knot and released her arms, grinning confidently. She tried to squirm, but it was futile now. She gazed at him, feeling warmth spread over her body, completely aware of the symbolism of being tied with his _necktie_ and pretty sure that he meant the same thing by doing it that she interpreted it to be. It was appealing, a perfect fit with her “DC hotshot” fantasy, and she wanted him now.

He understood. “Now that we have _that_ settled, let’s proceed again,” he purred as he returned to his prior activities.

He was much more aggressive this time, with one hand darting beneath her skirt and pushing it up messily around her waist while the other cupped the side of her face. He leaned in and planted his lips on her neck, grinding against her hips. She felt a very familiar hard bulge and let out a moan of desire and approval. He smirked and pulled back, eliciting a moment’s disappointment from her, but then she felt his fingers slip under her underwear.

The amount of sensation was overwhelming. It helped that she had been thinking about him on the way and that he looked so _damned_ good at the moment, but he could always do this to her, and it did not even take long. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, savoring the feel of him kissing up her neck and cheek, lightly cupping her face with one hand while the _other_ hand—

“I love how quickly you get wet for me,” he murmured—and then she felt a pair of fingers slip in.

With that, she gave it up. “Deeper,” she said in a half-growl. He obliged.

At some point she opened her eyes because she simply couldn’t help it. He was so close, leaning over her, his own eyes half-shut. Vaguely she remembered that he had pleased her this way when they were in the car in a snowstorm. As the feeling of pleasure mounted, she wondered if he would bring her to completion with this—and if so, if he would want her to reciprocate with _her_ hands. _Probably. When he ground his hips against me, I did feel—_

But all of a sudden, the sense of being filled left her as he slipped his fingers out of her. She opened her eyes fully, her face falling in disappointment. He noted her expression with a knowing smile as he drew back.

“Oh, don’t worry,” he said, deliberately licking off his fingers. With the other hand he reached roughly under her skirt and pulled her underwear straight down her legs. She stretched her legs out as he pulled it over her boots. He smiled in satisfaction as he tossed the underwear on the desktop and began to unbuckle his belt. “I’m _not_ done.”

The concern that had been in Rapunzel’s mind just a few minutes ago was a distant memory, with the state of pleasure and hunger that she was in now. Her gaze darted back to the activities of his hands as he carefully got his pants off the bulge that she had earlier felt. His gaze never breaking with hers, he moved close to her again, wrapped her legs around his waist, and entered her.

She was not sure what she had expected, but doing this almost fully clothed was not it. Almost every time, they were both completely undressed and usually in their bed. It was romantic and passionate… but then, she thought, this was too, just in a different way. There was a spark (well, more than a spark) of tawdriness—which was the whole point, she realized. He was her cocky “hotshot.” The awareness of his hands bunching her skirt around her waistline and holding her hips for support, the hard surface of his desk that made her want to lean upward into him instead, the warmth of his lips and skin against hers, the sweet, sweet trust that they occasionally exchanged through restricting the arms and wrists—all of these sensations washed over her at once over and over again. She watched his face change, from fully and confidently in control of the act to desperate and nonverbally pleading. His face tensed, and she knew hers was contorting in pleasure too as they had their release together.

Afterward, they heaved breaths, trying to come back into themselves. Flynn propped his elbows on the desk, bracing himself, attempting to catch his breath. Rapunzel simply let every muscle in her body go, grateful that he was still pushed against her so that she could not slide off the desk altogether.

When they finally regained their strength, he drew back, releasing her arms at last. His tie was wrinkled, prompting a smirk from her, but as she got off the desk, she caught him smirking right back at the sight of her equally wrinkled skirt. Trying to straighten the tie as best he could, he tossed her underwear to her.

“Well,” he said, at last deciding the tie was presentable again, “that was refreshing. A fine way to spend time.”

She glanced back at the desk as she got back into the underwear. “You’re never going to look at that desk in the same way again, are you?” she teased.

He threaded the tie loosely around his collar and smirked wordlessly back at her, giving her all the answer she required.


	19. Trouble in Paradise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tangled/Frozen modern AU crossover FTW.

Everyone needed a vacation. Flynn had been back to a nine-to-five office job on K Street, and even though he loved the policy work that he was now doing, it was draining—especially since he continued to write, sometimes spending several hours at the computer late at night. Rapunzel was balancing a newfound career as an illustrator of graphic novels with teaching a one-year-old how to talk. (Flynn loved to be a part of that when he was around, but during the day, she was the only adult in the condo.) Max and Pascal’s work at their own nonprofit was growing increasingly tedious and legalistic, as the organization was preparing to file briefs in some court cases. And Rapunzel and Flynn’s new friend, Elsa Rendell, was possibly the most exhausted of all. She did the sort of thing Flynn did in his day job, and even worked in the same building, but whereas he had three employees, _she_ was a solo lobbyist (or “climate policy consultant,” she would insist firmly, growing visibly uncomfortable at the other term), doing everything herself—at least when her younger sister Anna and Anna’s new boyfriend were not there. –Which was often. They too would say that they were busy and exhausted, though Kristoff had stopped with his two-year degree and Anna was getting a bachelor’s in business management. (Flynn, Elsa, Max, and to a lesser degree, Rapunzel and Pascal—with their degrees in literature, political science, broadcast meteorology, public policy, and fine arts—considered this to be _much_ easier than what _they_ had done… but, Rapunzel thought wisely, that was probably the case of any graduate.)

Rapunzel had at last had the idea of taking a group vacation, a thought that she fired off excitedly to everyone in an e-mail as soon as it occurred to her. The replies came swiftly, all positive. Before long, it was planned over e-mail that they would make a trip to the Florida Keys as soon as college let out and take a large condo on the beach.

Rapunzel also decided that, if she was going to invite someone to take a vacation with her, it was probably a good idea to meet that person first. She had not yet actually met Kristoff in person; she only knew of his existence. He apparently ran a snow cone vending stand on the National Mall now that the weather was warm and also sold something on eBay; she wasn’t quite sure what and Elsa and Anna seemed reluctant to say much about it. She sent an e-mail to Elsa about meeting up with her, Anna, and Kristoff before the trip.

* * *

Rapunzel unlocked the door to their condo and stepped inside, relishing the good taste, spacious rooms, and above all, _cleanliness_ of the place. Flynn was seated in a chair in the living room, doing something on his tablet and holding a drowsy baby across his lap. He glanced up as she entered and put the tablet down. A grin formed on his face.

“You look relieved,” he remarked.

“I am relieved,” she said. She sat down, picking Kate up and holding her against her chest. “You would be too if you had just spent two hours in a complete _dump_ of an apartment.” She rubbed her forehead. “I used to be ashamed of my old place in Silver Spring, and you always chastised me for it… but I see now that it wasn’t just you being nice to me.”

Flynn chuckled. “I had five douchebag hipster roommates in New York in college who all despised me. I know all about living in a dump, and yeah, you never had a thing to be ashamed of for having art supplies here and there.” He rubbed her shoulders affectionately.

She laughed as she leaned into his massage. “Well, this was the worst I’ve ever seen. It was all one room, with a tiny bathroom and kitchenette.”

“I know about that too,” he said with a wry grin. “I had one of those the first year I lived in the area.”

“Oh, so did I, and I know it can’t be helped sometimes. That wasn’t the problem. There’s just no reason for people to live like pigs. There were empty bottles _everywhere,_ and sticky residue from the snow cone maker. Apparently he loves snow cones so much that he makes them at home, except he _spikes_ those. I had a snow cone hurricane and it was okay… but wow. Oh, and the trolls and reindeer figurines.” She leaned over and put her head in her hands. “I was actually starting to get creeped out. There were trolls on the _bathroom shelves,_ Flynn. You know those troll dolls.”

“Wait, what? Trolls, reindeer figures, and booze snow cones? _Whose_ apartment was this again? I thought you were visiting Elsa, and I was amused because I wouldn’t have taken her for a slob.” He thought for a moment as the truth dawned on him. “Was it—”

“It was her sister’s boyfriend’s—at least, I guess Kristoff is her boyfriend,” Rapunzel explained. “I’m not sure if they’re actually going out.”

“Ow,” Kate mimicked from her mother’s lap.

Rapunzel beamed at her sixteen-month-old. “That’s right,” she said. “Out!” The baby smiled back with a mouth of little white teeth.

“Ah,” Flynn said. A faint smirk formed on his face. “Poor chap. I definitely know what _that’s_ like, not being sure exactly what you have with someone.”

Rapunzel raised an eyebrow and tossed a pillow at him. “Why is it that I always end up around eccentric people?” she asked. “My first friend was Pascal, who was kicked out of his home and who wears his hair green. Max is… well, mostly normal, but he’s a political staffer, so remaining normal is itself pretty weird.”

“Agreed,” he said with a smirk.

“Elsa has Asperger’s Syndrome,” she continued. Flynn raised an eyebrow. “You wouldn’t think it, I know, but she said it used to be a lot worse and she’s learned how to read people better now. She said her parents and guardians kept her away from her sister for years, refusing to let her go to school. Anyway, her sister… well, okay, Anna _is_ normal, but Kristoff collects trolls and reindeer figurines, sells them on eBay, and makes alcoholic snow cones. Last but _far_ from least,” she said with a smirk, _“you_ act and look like a smooth DC insider but you’re a book nerd at heart.”

“And you look at everything you see as a potential subject for art. Maybe you’re pretty eccentric yourself and _that’s_ why all your companions are too.” He smirked at her.

She smiled in acknowledgment. “That sounds about right, actually.” She turned to him with a smile still on her face. “They would like to have lunch with you tomorrow.”

“Sure. I agree with you about knowing the people I’m going to be vacationing with.”

* * *

They met at a café in Foggy Bottom with outdoor seating and selected one of the tables outside. Rapunzel had a strong sense of déjà vu but could not place it. Flynn was the one to remember that this was the little café where they had eaten very early in their relationship, a couple of days after they had had a run-in with protestors and later gone out for pizza.

“Aww, that is so sweet,” Anna said with a smile.

Rapunzel grimaced and looked at Flynn for help. It really wasn’t a very sweet reminiscence. That meal had been pretty unpleasant, she remembered now, because she was still firmly enclosed in her mental and emotional box, afraid of relationships, and definitely didn’t trust him.

He understood. “Well, I have a good memory,” he said blandly. He chuckled. “I also remember that while we were here, some anti-banker protestors we—knew—stopped and refused to even speak to me, because they recognized me. They spoke to Rapunzel, though,” he added.

Elsa, Anna, and Kristoff chuckled appreciatively. Rapunzel was incredibly grateful to him for subtly changing the subject from a topic that would have made _everyone_ uncomfortable if Anna had pursued it to a topic that brought laughter.

As they waited for their food to arrive, Flynn focused on Kristoff Bjorgman, having met Anna before when she was at her sister’s office to help with paperwork. The guy was certainly different from himself. Flynn thought that he and Rapunzel might be a little overdressed for the occasion, having put on a suit vest and a black-and-white panel dress respectively, but Anna and Elsa had also put on “going out” clothes. Meanwhile, Kristoff sat in ragged cutoffs and a big, sloppy tee, his shaggy blond hair hanging over his forehead, apparently oblivious to how he stood out.

At the moment, he was in the middle of a story about the time he had been kicked out of an Abercrombie & Fitch in upstate New York. Anna seemed embarrassed, but he kept talking.

“They started it,” Kristoff said, speaking of a trio of customers who had also been there. “The way they were looking at me, as if I were dirt under their feet—and the clerk laughed at me.”

“You don’t know that, Kristoff,” Anna muttered.

“He was obviously laughing at me. So I confronted them, and that was when I was told to leave.”

“That store caters to insecure douchebags anyway,” Flynn remarked. Anna’s eyebrows went up. “What? I don’t shop there! I don’t frequent snooty clubs either, for the same reason. There’s a point when you know you don’t have to prove _anything_ to _anyone,_ and at that point, you want nothing to do with preening, insecure posers.” The others at the table chuckled appreciatively, and Flynn turned to Kristoff. “What were you doing there? Just walked in?”

“I was looking for a jacket,” he said defensively, taking obvious umbrage at the question. “It was colder than I had anticipated.”

“It was early in the spring,” Elsa explained. “Anna and I had to make a quick trip there to deal with some paperwork about our parents’ assets.”

“I waited outside for those jerks to show up, but they never did,” Kristoff said. “Cowards.”

“Were you going to _fight_ them?” Rapunzel asked in alarm.

“Confront them. Verbally,” he grunted.

Rapunzel had no idea what to say. This seemed to be an inclination that a lot of men had. Flynn had, that one time, gone to “verbally confront” the Stabbington brothers and Facilier about their harassment of her, and it had not ended well for him. Later, he had “verbally confronted” a pair of bloggers who had made offensive speculations about both of them. But from the sounds of it, Kristoff was hypersensitive to supposed slights against _himself._ Flynn was deeply protective of _her,_ but he usually let attacks against himself slide unless they were also related to her.

Fortunately, the food arrived at this point, putting an end to the narrative. Flynn and Rapunzel got the strong impression that everyone (except Kristoff) was relieved; Kristoff had begun telling the story apropos of nothing, and it was unclear as to why. He seemed proud of it.

 _What does Elsa’s sister see in this guy?_ Flynn wondered. Anna was easily the most extroverted and social of everyone in their little group; although they functioned perfectly well in society, he and Rapunzel still had a strong tendency to not readily open up to others, and Elsa was a true introvert. Anna was ambitious in her way; she wanted to be an event planner or manager at a social venue or nonprofit. Flynn could not understand why such a girl would go for a guy who seemed content to make snow cones, sell troll dolls and reindeer online, and act so socially inept that an _Aspie—_ Elsa—looked normal in comparison. He would have picked Anna as the sort of girl to go for a political staffer, actually.

 _Well,_ he thought suddenly, _people probably wonder the same thing about Rapunzel and me, because they don’t know that our connection is not based on what we do for a career. Maybe it’s the same way with these two._ He tried not to judge.

As they began to eat their food, the conversation started up again and quickly turned toward a more normal topic: work.

“It’s become ridiculous in this town,” Flynn complained. “I mean”—he turned to Rapunzel with a nod—“sorry to repeat myself, I know I’ve talked about this a lot lately, but it’s at the point where they’re afraid to do practically _anything_ to work ‘across the aisle’ because of the base’s outrage about it, immediately whipped up on the Internet.”

Elsa nodded knowingly.

“Like, the new education bill—I was able to get a grant for gifted ed aimed at rural schools, and I actually managed to get bipartisan sponsors, but one of the Dems was _really_ reluctant to sign on because he was from a district that a lot of hipsters have moved into and was afraid that they would go after him—which one blog did.” Flynn rolled his eyes. “They don’t believe giftedness really exists. It’s just an artifact of ‘privilege,’ even if you’re a poor rural kid… like I was.” He scowled. “And politicians have to answer to them now in the primaries. It’s ruined _everything.”_

Elsa raised an eyebrow for a moment but quickly rearranged her face. “It’s the same way in my field of policy, and for the same reason. I was able to get a Republican sponsor on this climate research bill, but yeah, he was _terrified_ of the base back home.” She gave Flynn a pointed look. “So yeah, work in this city is _ridiculous._ I know _exactly_ what you mean about gridlock.”

“Touché,” he muttered under his breath.

Kristoff had caught the end of the conversation and was clearly eager to jump in. “Oh yeah,” he said enthusiastically. “You would not believe how hard it is to get a vending permit for the Mall… all the competition you have to beat out. But I managed to get one right next to Air and Space. I’m going to set up once we get back, so if you want to drop by, well….” He grinned.

Flynn stared in amazement at Kristoff, literally speechless. Elsa gazed at him for a moment too, unable to think of anything to say in response.

Fortunately, Anna came to the rescue before Kristoff realized his gaffe. “You weren’t at his apartment, were you, Flynn?” she said at once. “They’re actually quite good. He has all the standard flavors, but he also makes custom ones. Of course, he can’t sell the spiked ones, but maybe when we’re on vacation….”

“You’re taking the machine with you?”

“I have a miniature one. We’re getting a place with a washing machine, so I don’t have to bring more than a couple pairs of clothes. I’ll have room.”

Flynn gave up. _What have you gotten us into, Rapunzel?_ he thought, gazing upon his wife.

* * *

“This is a really nice place,” Elsa remarked, gazing around the airy, sunny, extremely open living space in the condo. The tropical sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, providing a crystalline sheen to the panoramic beachfront view. A sliding glass door on the same wall led to a patio perfect for sunbathing. The place was equipped with a minibar and dining table in that same wide open common room, and four bedrooms opened into the area.

“There’s a whirlpool tub in this one!” Rapunzel called from one of the bathrooms.

“That one’s ours,” Flynn said at once with a smirk. Elsa, Max, and Pascal—who were admiring the common room or the oceanfront view—just shook their heads in mild exasperation.

Kristoff had already claimed the smallest room as his own. He and Anna had decided that Anna would share a room with her sister, which Rapunzel had thought odd. While it certainly had not taken her and Flynn long to “do it” once they were officially a couple, they _had_ slept in the same bed as a romantic couple for two weeks before that. They had also spent the night together as friends and slept in the same bed without anything happening. However, people were different, she thought. Kristoff was awkward in general and this was probably his request.

At the moment, he was in the process of getting out the equipment for his snow cone machine. He shortly emerged with the machine and set it down on the minibar. Anna came out of the bedroom she wanted and shook her head at the sight of Kristoff trying to set the machine up. “For heaven’s sake,” she said, going over to the minibar. “Don’t worry about this right now.”

“Exactly. I think _food_ would be a good idea right now,” Flynn volunteered.

Rapunzel came out of the bedroom holding the hand of the small, tottering child. “Max? Pascal? You guys have been here before.”

“Not _here,”_ Pascal said at once. “This place… wow. Thanks, you two.”

Rapunzel turned faintly pink and smiled. “Well, I meant that you had been to the Keys before and might know of some good places to eat.”

“Indeed we do,” Max said at once.

* * *

The place Max had in mind was a funky restaurant with “island” cuisine, and the table they had to get—to seat seven plus a baby—was large. Rapunzel found herself seated between Flynn and Anna. That wasn’t her preference; of all the people she was vacationing with, she knew Anna and Kristoff the least well of anyone. But it was a good opportunity to get to know them better, she reasoned, and there _were_ some questions she was really curious about. Besides, Flynn was feeding Kate tonight whenever the baby didn’t want to handle her own food, freeing Rapunzel from that.

“So, Anna, how did you and Kristoff meet?” she asked as they worked on their food.

Kristoff, who was on Anna’s other side, reddened at the question. Anna looked uncomfortable for a moment but managed a weak smile. “Well, my sister came to Washington pretty soon after getting her degree and decided to work on climate policy. I decided I wanted to follow her after getting my Associate’s. We had been separated as kids, and I thought we should stick together, since we were all that we had. So I came here, and pretty soon I met this—guy—”

“Kristoff?”

Elsa, who was seated next to Kristoff, overheard and exchanged a dark glance with her sister. “No,” Anna said with a scowl. “It was another guy. A jerk named Hans Southerland. He worked at a political nonprofit.”

Flynn broke into a smirk at once, quickly hiding it before anyone could see.

“He even gave me a ring and pretended to be engaged, but he was false. I met Kristoff toward the end of it. I was walking back across the National Mall last winter and I just—collapsed on the pavement. He was selling _hot_ beverages and was packing up for the day, and he helped me.”

“That is sweet!” Rapunzel exclaimed.

Kristoff, at last, managed an actual smile at this remark.

“Anyway,” Anna said, “that other guy—well, it was a bad relationship and I was stupid to have gotten into it. I’m glad he’s out of my life.”

“She was in the hospital with double pneumonia after collapsing,” Elsa intoned in a low voice, “and he didn’t visit her. He didn’t send her anything—unless you count the break-up text.”

Rapunzel looked disgusted. “He sent a break-up _text_ while you were in the _hospital?”_

Anna nodded, still scowling. “He said he was interested in dating some co-worker of his at the think tank—an assistant director.”

“We’d better keep an eye on him. Sounds like he might be Speaker of the House someday,” Flynn quipped. Everyone at the table turned to face him, their eyes wide in surprise at his allusion. “What?” he asked. “Not _everyone_ is a blind partisan, you know.”

Rapunzel thought about what it would have been like if— _ugh—_ Flynn had broken up with her for someone else. It would have been the last straw, she realized. She probably _never_ would have opened herself up to _anyone_ again. _And he would have been the same way if I’d betrayed him,_ she thought. Inherently, they were both still loath to open up to other people; they had just made exceptions for each other and their very few friends. If the most important of those exceptions had been _false…_. This was a foul thing to speculate on, but given what she knew would have been true for herself and Flynn, it was a wonder that Anna—who also had a troubled childhood—even _could_ bounce back after being betrayed like that.

Rapunzel banished her unpleasant thoughts. “What a douche,” she said sympathetically. “Good riddance is right. Kristoff is much better than that.”

Kristoff blushed deep red. Anna, on the other hand, managed a genuine smile. “Well, of course. He always says what he means, and I like that. So we’ll see how it works out.”

 _He most definitely says what he means,_ Flynn thought with a faint smirk.

Rapunzel turned to Kristoff. “So, how’d _you_ end up in DC? Is your family from there?”

“Sort of. I went there because it was the city, you know? Opportunity. I was born in Maryland and never really had any family. They’re not dead, far as I know, but my dad abandoned my mom when she was pregnant and she put me into the system as soon as I was born. I’ve never known either of them. Don’t care to now. They didn’t want me.”

Flynn’s gaze immediately fixed upon the blond young man. _So he’s another one who went through foster care,_ he thought. He had not been too impressed with the fellow, but in another life, Flynn thought, he might have ended up in similar circumstances. If he had not been _quite_ so ambitious, not _quite_ so determined to leave his environment behind, _he_ might have become a snow cone vendor. Or—he thought about the kinds of businesses he had seen in working-class areas—a fast-food server, a bartender, a tattoo artist. _Or a street criminal,_ he thought darkly.

Yes, he thought grimly, he probably would have tried to get away with something illegal for personal enrichment no matter what he had become. Being an ambitious, cocky risk-taker was part of his personality in a way that it simply was not part of Kristoff’s. This kid was standoffish, odd, and completely unambitious, but at the same time, simple and good. He had never gotten in trouble with the law. Flynn had a sinking feeling that _he,_ on the other hand, would have run afoul of the law even without the high-dollar temptation of white-collar crime. Suddenly the vague disdain that he felt for Kristoff decreased. He had long known that there was nothing inherently wrong with being ambitious, but he had to admit that there was also nothing inherently wrong with not being so.

Kristoff finally noticed the suit-clad man staring at him. “What’re you looking at me for?” he asked gruffly. “Yeah, I grew up in foster care too. Guess I just didn’t make anything out of myself like you did.”

“Kristoff!” Anna groaned.

Flynn smothered the urge to say something rude back. “I was actually thinking about how you turned out much better than I probably would have in your shoes. And if you had been in my position, I’m guessing that you wouldn’t have tried to pull what I did, either.”

“See?” Anna hissed.

Kristoff looked uncomfortable. “Sorry,” he said, his face turning pink.

“But you _will_ need to find something else to do eventually,” Anna said primly. “The snow cone stand is only good for the summer, and unless I become a major event planner, you’ll need more than eBay sales of reindeer and trolls.”

Elsa and Rapunzel exchanged knowing looks at Anna’s accidental inclusion of the pair of them together, quickly looking away before Anna noticed and realized what she had said.

* * *

That first dinner kicked off a much-needed period of de-stressing for the entire group (with the possible exceptions of Kristoff and the baby, neither of whom apparently experienced stress). They had taken the condominium for a week, and the weather was perfect, which left them with plenty of time to simply relax on the beach and sip drinks.

Some members of the group found it easier than the others to relax. One night about halfway through the week, Pascal, Max, Anna, and Kristoff (to the extent that he volunteered an opinion) decided that the three who most needed the time off were not making the most of it. Flynn could sense that several of his suitemates were planning something. That evening, after a casual dinner (cooked by Rapunzel, to their dismay—the food was excellent, but she had fretted about the quality of the meal) in the condo itself, Max presented the scheme at last.

“You three need to go out,” he said insistently. “We’ll take care of the kid.”

“It wouldn’t be fair to ask that of you,” Rapunzel protested.

“You’re _not_ asking it. We’re volunteering to do it,” Max said. “Not one of the three of you has really been able to chill. _That’s_ what isn’t fair. Now go out and have fun. We did a lot of walking on the beach today anyway and would prefer to stay in tonight.”

Rapunzel glanced around. Pascal and Anna seemed equally determined on this plan, and Kristoff was apparently backing them up. Flynn looked pleased at the idea and not at all inclined to argue. Elsa appeared hesitant, but Rapunzel instantly realized that the two of them were completely outnumbered. _Maybe Max is right anyway,_ she thought.

Before long, the three of them were walking up the beach towards a divey, but fun-looking, bar that they had noticed earlier. Flynn felt a bit awkward about this stroll. In the past, the fact that women tended to find him attractive was a source of pride—and arrogance. He was actually not quite sure if Elsa _did_ find him (or any other men) attractive, and apparently, Rapunzel was uncertain of Elsa’s proclivities as well, even though Elsa was a far closer friend to her than to him. It was a topic about which the woman was apparently very private. Still, he had Rapunzel’s feelings to consider, and he was uncomfortable being _too_ chummy with her when it was just the three of them. He was relieved when they reached the bar and were engulfed by the crowd.

The bar was two levels with a balcony overlooking a stage below. It was all unpainted wood, and assorted touristy flags and posters were affixed on the walls. A bare spot of wall contained a list of painted names and dates, the tropical storms and hurricanes that had affected the key and the dates of the impacts. Beside this list was a painted silhouette of an extended middle finger. Flynn and Rapunzel smothered chuckles at this. Elsa started laughing out loud.

They got their drinks and sat down at a table. They were only about halfway through their cocktails when Flynn swerved around on his stool abruptly, his eyebrows narrowing. A scruffy-looking local with a leathery tan and a drink in hand stood there, smirking at the French martini before Flynn.

Flynn glared at the beach flea. “You have a problem?”

“No problem,” the man grunted. He swigged his drink. “Snowbirds generally blend in a _little_ better, that’s all.” He grinned at Flynn’s drink and the designer jeans and shirt he was wearing. “New York?”

“DC.” Flynn stood up and drew away from the table. He picked up his martini glass and—to Rapunzel’s absolute horror—downed the entire cocktail in one long gulp. He set the glass down on the table. “How many’ve _you_ had?”

The smirk had vanished from the local’s face as soon as Flynn drained his glass. “Just this,” he muttered, putting his glass to his mouth. They did not break eye contact as the man downed the drink. He set it down on a nearby table.

Rapunzel realized what was about to happen. “Flynn, don’t,” she protested.

He looked at her with a grin. “It won’t take that long to settle,” he said.

The local snorted. “Damn right it won’t.”

Rapunzel watched in dismay as Flynn sauntered up to the second-floor bar with the local and sat down next to the man. It was too far away, and the crowd was too noisy, for her to hear, but within a moment the bartender had laid out shots of something before each of them. Flynn and the beach bum picked the glasses up and began to drink. She turned to Elsa with a groan.

Elsa was shaking her head in muted laughter. “I’m sorry, Rapunzel, but it _is_ funny.”

“We’re going to have to get him back to the condo tonight in who knows what kind of condition,” she moped.

Elsa gave a shrug. “I doubt anyone there will be surprised. They seemed to be encouraging some sort of revelry.”

Rapunzel glanced back at the bar again. The shot glasses were empty, and Flynn was looking cocky and arrogant as the bartender prepared another set. In exasperation she turned to Elsa again. “Well, if that’s how he’s going to spend his time, _fine.”_ She managed a weak smile.

Elsa smiled back. “I wish my sister had wanted to come… but Kristoff almost certainly wouldn’t have, and she would have felt bad about leaving him.”

Rapunzel thought back to the story about Kristoff being confrontational with the shoppers that he thought had insulted him. “Kristoff wouldn’t have been able to resist that challenge either,” she muttered. “Probably just as well that they aren’t here.”

Elsa laughed.

“Do you get to do much with your sister?”

Elsa sipped her frozen margarita and contemplated the question. “Not as much as I’d like, to be honest. We were really close as little kids, but then I got my _diagnosis_ and our parents decided that I needed special attention. She was discouraged from spending too much time with me, because it was ‘bad for my socialization’ for my little sister to be the only person I played with. It was great to finally go off to college. And then she decided that she wanted to get close to me again, so she came to the city where I had decided to work. We bonded a lot during that year.”

Rapunzel thought about that. She wondered what it would have been like to have a brother or sister—and then to be separated because she was “odd” in some way. It would have been inexpressibly painful, she realized, and it probably would have made her want to leave her mother even more. _But Elsa’s parents died,_ she suddenly thought. She remembered, with some discomfort, how she had locked herself in a shell for three years after her own mother’s death, until Flynn finally insisted that she come out and gave her something that made it worth it.

They continued to chat idly for a while. At last Elsa drained her frozen drink and stood up. “Do you want another?”

Rapunzel considered it. She was still very careful about drinking, but one more wouldn’t hurt. “Sure,” she said. “I’ll try what you had.”

The second-floor bar was packed. Elsa hovered around for a while, trying to get the attention of a bartender, but gave up and headed downstairs to the main bar. Rapunzel glanced at Flynn again. He set down an empty shot glass and barked out a laugh as the local struggled with his own. The tanned beachcomber finally finished his and genially slapped Flynn on the back. Both men erupted into good-natured laughter. It appeared that her city slicker had won the other man’s respect after all.

Rapunzel smiled and shook her head. Then she noticed—Elsa was gone. She had not seen her friend give up on the second-floor bar and had no idea where she was off to. Suddenly concerned, Rapunzel got up and headed to the other side of the bar to look for her.

“A Sazerac,” came a smooth, silky male voice. That voice sounded vaguely familiar to her, and she looked around for its source.

Rapunzel felt her heart drop through her chest. There, right at the bar, just on the other side of where Flynn sat, was no other than the Wall Street broker-turned-outlaw Facilier.

_What is he doing in the country? How could he get in?_

It must have been a false identity, she realized. The FBI never had tracked down the accomplice who specialized in false documents and identity theft. Why he felt that a trip to Key West was remotely worth the risk of getting caught, she could not figure out, but for whatever reason, he was here. All thoughts of finding Elsa fled her mind. There were only two things that she could think of now: avoiding being seen and getting Flynn _away_ from that bar as soon as she could. Thinking quickly, Rapunzel decided it was better to slip behind Facilier rather than go around the bar and give him a clear view of her face.

 _He may not recognize me,_ she told herself nervously. _I’ve only met him once. But he would absolutely know Flynn._ She tried to convince herself that this was an irrational fear; the man wasn’t even supposed to be in the country, and as a fugitive from the federal government, he would be in an enormous amount of trouble if he were caught and identified. _Surely he wouldn’t do anything to Flynn._ But she could not put aside the thought that someone with the resources to get in on a fake identity might have other resources that she didn’t really want to contemplate.

A crowd of twelve to fifteen loud, obnoxious, laughing college girls bustled right in front of Rapunzel, oblivious to their own rudeness. They stood directly in her way, clutching a variety of drinks, texting, and chattering to each other loudly. The entire aspect of the group seemed to be a symbolic bird-flip to everyone else, just like the painted hand on the wall flipping off the hurricanes—but _not_ in a humorous way. Rapunzel was pretty sure that the girls had to realize that she was around, trying to get through, but were passive-aggressively blocking her.

At last she mustered up the nerve to cut through the annoying group. The girls seemed surprised that anyone would dare invade “their” space, but Rapunzel’s silent, contemptuous resolution rendered them speechless and unable to stop her. She broke through and continued her walk over to the area of the bar where Flynn had been seated.

He was gone. The beach bum was still there, slowly nursing a glass of ice water and looking very drunk indeed, but Flynn was nowhere to be seen. Rapunzel wanted to curse the girls for delaying her. Where _was_ he? Where was Elsa?

Just as she was sure that the situation could not become more nerve-wracking, it did. Facilier came around the back of the bar, holding his drink to his lips, and met her eyes with his own.

 _Oh no. Oh no no no._ Rapunzel tried very hard to keep fear out of her face and act natural. She forced a look of annoyed confusion onto her face and glanced away from him as normally as she could. She turned around and scanned the entire upper level of the bar—this time hoping that she _didn’t_ see Flynn—before, to her immense relief, Elsa reappeared at the top of the stairs bearing the two drinks. She dashed over to her friend and accepted her drink.

“Elsa,” she said in a low tone, “we’ve got a problem. Facilier—I don’t know if you know who I mean, but—”

“I know who you mean,” Elsa said. “He’s _here?”_

Rapunzel nodded. “And I don’t know where Flynn is now. He’s not with that guy anymore. We’ve got to keep them from noticing each other. I don’t think Facilier remembered me, but….” She trailed off darkly.

Elsa glanced at the bar. The local man had finished his water and was staggering up drunkenly. He attempted to push his bar stool up before remembering that these particular stools were bolted to the floor. “He’s probably in the men’s room,” Elsa said. “That’s where that guy appears to be going.”

Rapunzel watched the man lumber off toward the restroom. _Great,_ she thought in aggravation. _Just great._ “Just a sec,” she said, leaving Elsa as she darted after the man.

She caught up with him. “Wait,” she said.

The beach bum turned to her with the slow reflexes that would only come from being drunk. “Hey, ’sup?” he drawled.

She scowled. “The guy you were in a drinking contest with,” she began.

“Oh yeah. Called _him_ wrong. Fellow matched me drink for drink,” the man chuckled.

“Well, did he tell you where he was going when he got up?”

The man thought for a moment. “Said he was going to look for his wife. That’d be you, I guess.”

“Yes,” she said impatiently. “That’s all he said?”

“Uh-huh. Now, if you’ll excuse me….” The man staggered away.

Rapunzel headed back to Elsa, infuriated and concerned, and related what she had just been told. Elsa pursed her lips. “Well, I don’t see him up here,” she said. “So either he went to the restroom first, or he went downstairs. Why couldn’t he find you, by the way?”

Rapunzel groaned as she explained about the group of girls. Elsa smothered a laugh. “All right,” she said. “I quite agree that he needs to be found before Facilier catches a glimpse of him. You can go downstairs to look, since you’re worried about Facilier seeing you too. I’ll stay up here. Send me a text if you catch up with him first and I’ll join you. If I see him, I’ll explain it to him and we’ll meet you downstairs.”

Rapunzel headed downstairs, entering the larger crowd. At once, her heart sank. This group was boisterous and probably tipsier than the people upstairs—and many of them were dancing to the live music that thumped through the bar, whether they were on the open dance floor or not.

Working on her margarita all along, she weaved her way through the crowd as well as she could, keeping her eyes out for Flynn. Before long, the strong drink—in combination with the previous cocktail—began to affect her. The music _was_ very catchy, and Rapunzel could not quite help herself from swaying to the beat as she meandered through the crowd. Vaguely she had the thought that it was a good thing her drink was frozen, because otherwise she would have sloshed it all over the place….

“Watch where you look, punks!” slurred a very familiar voice.

Rapunzel stopped and whirled around. Flynn was staggering drunkenly toward a group of fratty-looking boys who, Rapunzel realized with embarrassment and annoyance, were eyeballing her with clear interest. Elsa was darting through the crowd behind him, trying to catch him before he made a scene of himself. Rapunzel sucked down the rest of her margarita, deposited the glass on an unoccupied table, and hurried over to him.

He smirked as she reached him and threw a heavy arm over her shoulders. “Can’t keep out of trouble for long, I see,” he slurred as he squeezed her.

“Don’t even dare,” she said at once. _“I’m_ not the one who apparently had to sick up over the toilet—”

 _“This_ time you weren’t. I remember our first meeting.”

Rapunzel ignored this. “—after doing—how many shots _did_ you do with that guy?”

Flynn shrugged. “A lot. Good man.” He laughed tipsily to himself. “I told him that I was from the mountains as a kid and either way I could knock ’em back with the best of them.”

Elsa caught up with them at last. “It’s time to go,” she said to Rapunzel. “He’s hopeless. I’m not sure he even understood what I told him. Or remembers it now.”

“I understood _exactly_ what you told me,” Flynn said insistently. “And I saw him too. That was why I went looking for _you,”_ he said to Rapunzel.

“Well, you’ve found me,” she said. “Did he see you?”

“Nope.” Flynn grinned. “I’m stealthy.”

Rapunzel looked helplessly at Elsa. “Yeah, it’s time to go.” She turned to Flynn. “You’re drunk. Can you even walk back, or should we get a cab?”

“We’re getting a cab,” Elsa said at once.

* * *

Even though it was a short ride, Flynn was snoozing on Rapunzel’s shoulder by the time the taxi pulled into the tower where their condo was located. She nudged him awake. “Hey,” she said. “We’re here. You can go to sleep in the room.”

Flynn stirred, reached for his billfold, and handed a credit card to the driver. He yawned, accepted the card after it had been swiped, and stumbled out of the cab with Rapunzel and Elsa. “What do you think he was doing here, anyway?” he mumbled as they walked into the building.

“Who knows,” Rapunzel said. “I’m just glad he didn’t see you.”

“I wonder if we should report him to the cops,” Elsa said in a low voice.

“Don’t know if it would do any good,” Flynn said, his train of thought surprisingly rational. “We don’t know what name he’s here under. But I guess we should report a sighting even if it won’t amount to anything.”

They got into the elevator, waited for it to reach their floor, and stumbled into the unit. Elsa, who was the least intoxicated, unlocked the door. Flynn dashed in and instantly stumbled into the bedroom they had been using, promptly collapsing on the partially unmade bed and kicking off his shoes.

Rapunzel followed him into the room. For a moment she had the thought that she should make him change into his pajamas, but she quickly changed her mind. She went over to the dresser and got her own out of the drawer to put on. Then she went to the crib that stood near their bed, checked on the soundly sleeping baby, and turned out the light as she climbed up beside him.


	20. Future:  Growing Up Fast

“Mom?” a hesitant, uncertain voice called down the stairs.

At once, Rapunzel sprang up from her desk and headed for the staircase. She peered up the dim, unlit corridor at the fifteen-year-old girl who loitered bashfully at the top. She could hardly see her daughter in this light.

“Katherine, why are you hiding?” she asked concernedly as she began to walk up the stairs.

There was a hesitation. Then Katherine answered, “Are _they_ around?”

 _Oh._  Rapunzel knew at once whom she meant. “Your brothers are outside with your dad,” she said, trying to keep out the tinge of irritation at the male side of the family, but not quite succeeding. Nine-year-old Eugene and seven-year-old William had been giving their older sister no end of grief about tonight, constantly teasing her, and—to Rapunzel’s extreme annoyance—their father had not been very firm in rebuking them. “Don’t tease your sister” was all that he would say.

She had finally told them all to go outside and play sports or something—to take advantage of the nice big yard. Gone were the days of the single-bedroom top-floor condominium in the city of Fairfax. They now owned a house outside the suburbs, since the family needed the space. The kids’ great-grandparents—now in their mid to upper eighties—had moved back east to live near their family, the only family they had. They frequently visited and spent the night, but even then the house was sufficient for everyone’s needs.

Rapunzel reached the top of the stairs at last and turned on the light. Katherine gazed up at her. Kate’s eyes, nearly an exact duplicate of her mother’s in color and shape, met their counterpart. There were some superficial differences, however—most notably, the fact that Katherine had applied eye makeup, whereas Rapunzel did not. Even twenty years after leaving her birth home, Rapunzel still did not like wearing makeup because of the bad memories it brought back. She used the bare minimum, and then only to protect her face. However, she could still pick out a well-done makeup job.

“You look very nice,” Rapunzel said, smiling at her daughter.

As if on cue, Katherine turned around to let her mother see the way she had parted her hair. Thick, wavy, chest-length, and dark, nearly the exact shade of her father’s hair, it was hair to covet—and, from what Rapunzel understood, some of Kate’s classmates at school did exactly that. Rapunzel hadn’t wanted to say too much, because her own mother had constantly remarked on how “pretty” Rapunzel was as long as she was dressed and made up _her_ way, but she had been aware for several years now that her daughter was turning into quite a beauty.

Still, if Katherine was indeed as bashful and uncertain as she seemed to be, Rapunzel decided that she needed to try to bury her own discomfort about complimenting her daughter’s appearance. _She made herself up and did her own hair,_ Rapunzel scolded herself mentally. _This isn’t about you. Complimenting her for her efforts is different from what Mother did, bragging on her own work while backhandedly slighting you._

“Really?” Katherine asked, seemingly confirming Rapunzel’s belief that she was uncertain.

Rapunzel smiled. “Really. Your makeup and your hair look wonderful.” She reached out with open arms and enveloped her daughter in them, giving her a tight hug.

Katherine hesitated for a brief fraction of a second before returning her mother’s embrace. She was a small person, even smaller than her mother (though only by a couple of inches now), and _that_ was what Rapunzel suspected was a major factor in Flynn’s ambivalence towards the idea of her going on a date. He always had been protective of Rapunzel herself, and still was. It seemed to be a part of his nature to want to protect those smaller and, in his mind, more vulnerable than he was.

They broke apart, and Rapunzel gave Katherine a gentle smile as they began to head downstairs. Her date, a boy from her class who was sixteen and had his driver’s license, would be here in a few minutes.

Unfortunately, just as they reached the bottom of the stairs, the front door opened. The “guys” barreled inside in a flurry of noise and activity, bringing the scents of human sweat and the outdoors into the house. Eugene and William started to bound loudly upstairs when they noticed their sister. That stopped them cold. Exchanging sly grins uncannily similar to their father’s familiar smirk, they turned around and sauntered back down to the front living room.

“Is your _boyfriend_ here yet, Kate?” William taunted.

Katherine’s eyes narrowed. “He’s not my boyfriend!” she snapped. Turning to her mother, she implored, “Mom, don’t let them sit down here. They’re filthy! Just look at them!”

Rapunzel had already noticed the fact that her sons were covered in dust. Even as Katherine spoke, she caught sight of a leaf fragment in Eugene’s hair. “Boys, your sister is right. Go upstairs, get into the bath, and put on something clean.”

“We _all_ have to dress up just because Kate’s _boyfriend_ is coming by?” Eugene said around a smirk.

“That’s enough. I’ve told both of you to stop that,” Rapunzel said. “I’m sure your sister won’t forget this when _you_ two want to go on dates in a few years.” She smirked back at them.

“I will _never_ want to go on a date!” Eugene declared.

Rapunzel laughed. “Oh yes you will.”

“And Mom is right,” Katherine said wickedly. “I _will_ remember when your turn comes.”

“It won’t!” Eugene exclaimed again.

“Mine either!” echoed William.

Finally Flynn, who had stood silently in the foyer as this took place, spoke. “Didn’t the two of you hear your mother?” he said. “You _are_ dirty. Now go upstairs, wash yourselves off, and put on clean clothes. We’re going to have dinner anyway once Kate heads out. You know you’re supposed to get cleaned up before meals.”

The boys grinned again and bounded up the stairs as they had started to do before their attention was distracted. When they were gone, Katherine heaved a sigh of relief. Rapunzel placed a hand on her shoulder comfortingly. She gazed up at Flynn and immediately noticed that he was trying to slink out of the room unnoticed.

“Where are you going?” she said, an eyebrow raised.

He stopped and turned around. “Putting on something clean myself.” He went to the master bedroom, and in a few minutes, came out dressed in—of all things—a suit and tie. He was running a comb through his hair when he reappeared in the living room and sat down. He stared toward the front door, not acknowledging his wife or daughter.

Rapunzel glared pointedly at him. He blinked, glanced at his daughter, and managed a smile. “Well, you look very nice,” he said to her. He fell silent again.

Rapunzel sighed to herself. She would definitely have a _word_ with her husband once Katherine was out.

Just then, the doorbell rang. All three of them sprang up to answer it, but Flynn got to the door first. He opened it like a shot.

Before them was a clean-shaven, well-groomed, dark-haired, moderately handsome young teen. About three inches shorter than Flynn, he was dressed conservatively and gave the overall appearance of shyness and deference, but what Flynn immediately noticed was that his hair was cut in a Mohawk. A faint scowl appeared on his face.

Rapunzel could not help but notice how nervous the young man was as she and Katherine approached. She suddenly realized _exactly_ why Flynn had put on a suit. It was to intimidate the boy. She could not believe him. Even though this was a wealthy county and their millionaire status therefore wasn’t particularly distinctive, he was still well-known as a bestselling author, and that would be intimidating enough.

“You’re Jake, right?” she said, welcoming the young man into the house with a gentle smile on her face.

He seemed relieved. “Yes. It’s an honor to meet you—both of you,” he added, glancing nervously at Flynn.

“Same here,” she said. She pushed her nervous daughter forward. “Now, don’t let us keep you waiting. You’ve got dinner to eat and a movie to see.” Turning to Kate, Rapunzel smiled encouragingly at her. “Remember, ten o’clock. And if anything goes wrong, you—”

“I have my phone,” Katherine said, seemingly regaining some confidence at the reminder.

“That’s good, then.”

Flynn finally spoke, though it sounded as if he was making an extreme effort to do so. “Enjoy your evening,” he choked out.

As the young couple left the house and headed toward Jake’s car (technically his parents’ car), Rapunzel turned to her husband with a glare. “What is your _problem?”_ she exclaimed.

He glared back at her. “He’s a little punk,” he snarled.

Rapunzel heaved a sigh. “He is not a _punk!_ He was very polite. And I think you scared him half to death, opening the door like a popgun and towering over him like that in a suit.”

“All I have to say is, he’d better keep his hands off her,” Flynn muttered in response.

“Oh, like you kept yours off me?” Rapunzel said sarcastically.

That was a mistake. “You want her to do the sort of things we did?” he exclaimed in disbelief. “Do I really need to remind you—”

“No—of course I don’t! But we were in our twenties, Flynn, and we were both out of college. She knows how to behave appropriately. And Jake is a good kid. He’s on the honor roll and the student council.”

“He’d better be a good kid,” Flynn muttered.

“He is. And the way you intimidated him, I think he’d be afraid to cross you even if he _weren’t.”_

Flynn smirked. “That was the general idea.”

Rapunzel shook her head in exasperation, but a smile was forming on her face as she sat down next to her husband. She leaned against him and let her hand trail down his thigh, toward his knee. “I guess it’s just a ‘dad’ thing,” she said. “Not that I ever saw it personally… but in movies and books….”

He nodded. “Yeah… it is a ‘dad’ thing, but I think it’s an extension of a ‘protective of the people I love’ thing.”

Rapunzel smiled. “Well, you were always very protective of me too.”

 _“‘Were’?”_ he said with a raised eyebrow.

She chuckled. “Okay, okay. Point taken.”

He smirked and leaned in, giving her a kiss.


	21. Standing Out In the Crowd (AU Beginning)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a "happy AU" beginning of the story. Less angst and drama implied, but also less story.

Flynn sipped his wine and frowned as the political elites circulated around him. Members of Congress and their families, high-ranking staff, wealthy donors, lobbyists… most of them sparkling with their own narcissism, simultaneously loving and hating being around people just like them in this hotel ballroom.

Flynn hated these functions. _Really_ hated them. Maybe he _was_ every bit as narcissistic as the people surrounding him in their high-priced suits and glittering Rolexes, but he still felt somehow superior to all of them. _They_ held the general population in contempt, the people that at least _some_ of them were supposed to represent, but—whether envious or not—did respect each other. _He_ , on the other hand, held _everyone_ in contempt. Playing the game of this rarefied world had made him a millionaire, but that didn’t mean he had truly become part of it. Though he could simper and sneer with the best of them, he didn’t even like talking to these people and had no friends. He didn’t even really like to hang out with the crowd from work anymore.

He was almost getting ready to leave early, alleging a headache, when something caught his eye. There, crouched down low against the back wall, a girl with short brown hair trimmed neatly around her head had a notebook propped up against her bent knees. She was scribbling feverishly on the top page, occasionally peering out at the crowd of people before ducking her head and continuing with her work.

 _Well, that’s different,_ Flynn thought. Whoever this girl was, she didn’t seem to be inclined to socialize with these people either. Instead she was—what? Taking notes? _Writing?_ a tiny voice whispered mischievously in the back of his mind.

He ignored that particular voice, but now that he had seen her, he couldn’t ignore the girl. Though no one else seemed to notice her, to _him_ everything about her stood out in this crowd, from her ungraceful sitting on the hard carpet to her mysterious activity to the general impression she gave of being lost in the workings of her own mind. Flynn smiled involuntarily to himself at that thought. He could relate….

She didn’t notice as he approached her, but as he drew nearer, he could tell that she was very pretty and probably younger than he by a few years. She was dressed in a simple black cocktail dress, but it was fitted, and even when she was crouched on the floor like this, it was evident that she had a good figure. Her eyes were a vivid grass-green, and a sprinkling of freckles dotted her face. Finally he reached her and cleared his throat to get her attention.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, suddenly seeing him. She bolted to her feet and clutched the notebook to her chest. Her face colored.

“You look busy,” he remarked, his eyes fixed on the notebook.

She nodded quickly, not speaking a word.

“What was it—if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Drawing,” the girl stuttered out.

Flynn raised an eyebrow in surprise and peered around the room. “Drawing _this_ crowd? Doesn’t seem like the best subject.”

“Yeah, but I try to practice whenever I can,” the girl said. Her grip on her notebook seemed to loosen a bit, and the ghost of a smile formed on her face.

“You’re an artist?” That was _definitely_ something different. Flynn found himself glad that he had chosen to talk to this girl.

“Art student,” she said. “George Washington. Second year.”

“Well, I’m a lobbyist,” he said, though he almost didn’t want to. “The name’s Flynn Rider.” He held out a hand to her.

“Rapunzel Forrest.” She took his hand—wow, he thought, she had soft skin—and shook firmly. He was surprised at the strength of her shake; he had not expected that from the seemingly insecure young woman before him.

“That’s an unusual name,” he remarked.

She nodded, looking away, but said nothing. Flynn suspected that this was probably not the best subject to discuss, so he segued to the one that had brought him over here in the first place.

“So, you draw at these functions?” he asked. “It’s uncommon to see someone doing something like that here.”

She looked down. “I know,” she said quietly, shame filling her voice.

He suddenly felt really bad about apparently giving her the impression that he disapproved. “Oh no,” he said quickly, “there’s nothing _wrong_ with it! In fact, it’s what got my attention. You were doing your own thing, being creative. I like that.” He smiled at her. “You’ve spent your evening a lot better than any of these people have,” he added, “including me. You’ve got something to show for the night, something that will last. They don’t.”

She was looking at him with a strange, intrigued expression as he rambled. The grip on her sketchbook loosened further.

“So, do you mind if I have a look at it?”

She hesitated for a fraction of a second, then held out the notebook—which he now realized was a sketchpad. He took it in hand and regarded the top picture. It was in pencil. It wasn’t quite realistic; there was a whimsical element to it almost reminiscent of old cartoon landscapes from the 1960s or perhaps concept art for modern animations, but this only added a kind of charm to the scene that was absolutely (in Flynn’s mind) not present in reality. He rather liked it.

“That’s excellent,” he said sincerely, handing the notebook back to her.

The smile on her face grew. “Thanks,” she said shyly. She seemed to want to say something else, but appeared to be struggling in her mind with whether or not to do it. Flynn picked up on this and gave her an encouraging smile of his own. That settled it for her. “You’re the first person at these events who’s been interested in my sketchbook,” she said in a slightly hushed voice. “Well, other than my grandparents and their staff.”

The mention of these other names brought Flynn back to the present reality. She was apparently a family member of some politician, something he should have realized from the moment he saw her slumped against that wall, oblivious to the crowd. Someone like that would not be one of the politicos, lobbyists, or donors themselves, and family members were the only other option. He felt his heart sink, then wondered why he should care—or what a hackneyed, ridiculous expression it was to think of one’s heart sinking. But there was no denying the disappointment he felt, though he could not pinpoint the cause. He supposed it was probably because the primal part of him would have wanted to take her home after the party, but if she was the granddaughter of a Congressman or something, that would not be a good idea. This town lived on gossip, and it wasn’t so much being _involved_ in a scandal that warranted condemnation as it was being careless enough to get _caught._

“And who are your grandparents?” he asked her resignedly.

Just then he heard heavy footfalls behind him. “Rapunzel, are you all right?” came a strong, confident voice. The voice’s owner turned as he reached them. His brown eyes widened at the sight of Flynn. “He’s not bothering you, is he?” There was a sinister sneer in the man’s question, and Flynn suddenly felt certain that he knew this man. That shock of light blond hair on his head… that heavily muscled figure…. He had dealt with this person before, he knew it.

“Oh no, Max,” Rapunzel said eagerly. “He was interested in my sketchbook.” She couldn’t help but smile. “Max, this is Flynn—”

“I know who he is,” Max said rudely.

Flynn raised an eyebrow, his inner hackles raised once more. “Yeah?” he said. “That doesn’t surprise me. I’m pretty well-known in this town,” he blustered recklessly. Part of him protested against it, sure that it would make a bad impression on Rapunzel, but he couldn’t seem to help himself.

Max sneered at him. “Save it, Rider.”

Rapunzel was staring at the two in amazement. “Um,” she said hesitantly, “okay, obviously you know him, Max… but Flynn, this is Max Morgan, my grandpa’s director of research.”

The name rang a bell in Flynn’s mind, and suddenly he knew who Rapunzel was. A news story suddenly rushed back to his memory, one he had heard almost four years ago, when he first started working in this town. Senator Everard King of Colorado had had a daughter—and, it turned out, a sixteen-year-old granddaughter that neither he nor his wife had known about—living in some boondock place in Alaska, but the girl’s mother had poisoned herself, leaving the senator and his wife as the legal next of kin for the girl. Rapunzel, he realized, was that girl.

This was bad. This was really bad. Flynn had few enemies in town, but he could definitely count this senator as one of them. The anti-corruption crusader had had his sights set on Flynn’s lobbying firm for several months now— _rightly so,_ Flynn thought grimly—and if the investigation kept going the way it appeared to be going, Flynn was pretty sure he would eventually have to decide whether to bet that nothing serious would come of it, or come forward and spill everything he knew in exchange for immunity. It was an awful choice to contemplate making, and Flynn tried not to think too much about it, but he knew that the day of reckoning was approaching.

Max Morgan and Rapunzel had no idea what thoughts were passing through his head at this moment, however. Max seemed to be regarding him with utter contempt. He turned to Rapunzel, pointedly not speaking to Flynn. “Well, I’d better head back,” he said. “If anything starts to make you uncomfortable, just let one of us know, and we’ll head out of here.” He smiled sympathetically at her and ambled off, giving Flynn one last dark look.

Rapunzel turned to Flynn awkwardly. “Um… sorry about that,” she said.

His voice was strained. “It’s all right,” he said. He swished the remaining dregs of wine in his glass, staring at it to avoid looking her in the eye. “I should leave you alone too. It was nice to meet you, though.”

She looked hurt. “But I thought… you liked….” She trailed off, her gaze dropping to the floor.

He realized what she had to be thinking. “I _did_ like talking with you,” he said. “But… well, just go talk to your grandparents and you’ll see,” he said sourly. _Might as well end this before it starts,_ he thought to himself, _since nothing can come of it anyway._

She looked confused. “I don’t understand.”

“You will,” he said darkly. With a last parting squeeze of her hand, he quickly walked away, leaving her looking sad and bewildered. He kept walking, leaving the ballroom and the party, stepping into the hall of the hotel. No one else was in sight.

He leaned against the wall, closed his eyes, and sighed. What was wrong with him? Why was he feeling so depressed about having to cut short the conversation with this girl he had just met?

_It’s because anyone who will slouch against a wall and draw a picture in the middle of a self-absorbed political cocktail party is unique and special, that’s why._

With that thought, somehow, the decision that he had been putting off was made. If this girl didn’t belong in this world, then he—the one person in the whole ballroom who had taken sympathetic, admiring notice of her—didn’t belong in it either. And he knew why he had taken notice. The image of a young boy perched on a log, roasting wieners over a campfire in the middle of the Smoky Mountains, then eagerly filling out a lined notebook with stories, filled his mind.

He knew what he had to do. It would mean no more of these parties, no more invitations, no more ill-gotten money pouring in, but what difference did that make, really? He was already a millionaire. He’d gotten what he wanted out of the system. If he stayed in much longer, the system would end up eating _him._ It was time to call it a day.

 _And if you assist the senator’s investigation, you might get to see his granddaughter again,_ a voice in his mind whispered.

In spite of himself, he felt a weak smile forming at the corners of his mouth. He wanted to tell himself that this was a ridiculous thing to think about, but he couldn’t help it. He was human, and—why not admit it?—he wished he _could_ get to know her better. With the smile still on his face, he gave the doors to the ballroom one last look as he left.


	22. Roaring Flames (AU Camping Scene)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an AU of the campfire sequence that begins right after the kiss. I'm not sure how much of the story would actually turn out differently, though.

Rapunzel broke away from Flynn, her heart pounding and her breaths hitched. She stared wide-eyed at him. He peered back at her with a look of contentment that quickly turned to smug satisfaction. Then he leaned forward and pulled her in close again, more insistently this time.

She breathed heavily. _What am I doing?_ she thought in a panic, but the thought quickly fled her mind as their lips met for the second time. She couldn’t deny that this felt really, really nice, and it was making a strange, unfamiliar, but quite pleasant feeling curl up in the pit of her stomach… a feeling that seemed to compel her to draw even closer. To clutch at the front of his jacket as if he were a lifeline. To moan in pleasure as he released her lips and began trailing sloppy intense kisses across her jawline, toward her earlobe, down her neck….

“I’ve thought about this all month,” he murmured against her skin. “Since the first night I saw you.”

Well, that didn’t surprise her. He had taken notice of her in a club, after all.

“I just wanted… to let you… take your time,” he gasped out between kisses. His own breathing seemed to be getting quicker and more intense. She felt herself being pulled into a tight embrace.

_What am I doing?_ she asked herself again, but the voice was fainter now. In the heat of this moment, aided by the flames of their campfire, the voice that feared and protested against this type of closeness was being overcome by another one, one telling her that she had nothing to fear from him and she shouldn’t fear what she might do to him, because the effect she’d had on him so far had been nothing but a good one. He had opened up to her and told her about aspects of his past that he had told no one else. Even that comment tonight—”I wonder if I have any kind of a life anyway”—was clearly an indication of remorse over what he’d done. His follow-up to the remark proved it.

He gave a gasp and finally pulled away from her. When he drew away, he looked positively desperate. “I… think… let’s get inside the tent,” he managed to say. Silently she nodded, a smile playing at the corners of her lips.

He shoveled ash over the fire, extinguishing most of the light it gave off, and they crawled inside the tiny tent. It seemed a little bigger inside, but there was still very little room. It also seemed cold with the fire quelled.

“It’s chilly,” she remarked. Her voice sounded breathless, not quite her own.

He turned to her with a smirk that, even in the darkness, she could see clearly. “Well, I know ways to keep warm.”

She blushed hotly at the implications, and the flushing remained as he pulled up the heavy blankets, motioned for her to get underneath, and promptly climbed in himself and lay down on top of her, facing her. She could feel his heart pounding, so close to her own.

He began to kiss her again, this time letting his hands trail all over her body, under her clothes, and through her soft hair, pressing harder and harder against her, or so it seemed, as if he couldn’t get close enough no matter what. The protesting voice was now entirely absent. She really liked this, having him close like this, covering her like a human security blanket, warming her and showing affection to her….

Finally he pulled away for the last time and exhaled. He relaxed and rolled on his side, holding her and rolling her with him as he did. In the lull, however, the thoughts that she had been pushing out began to come back in force. Her heart thumped with renewed anxiety. _Now what?_ she thought in a sudden panic. _Where do we go from here?_

Flynn, however, did not seem to be aware of the feelings of panic rushing over the young woman lying next to him. He draped an arm around her and pulled her as close as he could, exhaling in pleasure. “Good night,” he said softly, giving her a peck on the cheek.

She couldn’t get out of his arms even if she wanted to, and she had to confess to herself that a part of her—a rather large part—did not want to. So she burrowed against his chest and let the pleasant—if unfamiliar—feelings of closeness and affection wash over her again. She would deal with the _other_ feelings in the morning.


	23. A Problem of Trust (AU Moving In)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a darker AU scenario in which Rapunzel has to move in with Flynn because her friends won't be in the DC area often enough to justify living there. It makes a heavy allusion to a political issue that was still topical in 2012, when the story was written. Warning for mildly dubious consent.

It was the most humiliating phone call she had ever made. Far worse, even, than the painful calls that the social worker in Alaska had wanted her to make with her mother that first year when she lived in a boarding school in Fairbanks. _Those_ calls were monitored by her social worker, and Rapunzel wasn’t asking her mother for a favor. The _law_ made her mother continue to pay financial support, and her social worker had wanted her to make the calls to try to keep the relationship alive. But in _this_ call, she was asking for an enormous favor, and asking it of a person whom she just two weeks ago had shouted at, slapped, and told to leave.

As she waited anxiously and unhappily in the Silver Spring Metro station, a poster, a public service announcement, caught her eye. “IT’S NOT YOUR ONLY CHOICE,” blared a gritty italicized font against a distorted, heavily shadowed photo of a morose-looking young woman. At the bottom was the name of the nonprofit that had placed the ad. It was a message for desperate women who were considering prostitution.

Rapunzel quickly glanced away from the poster. Something about it was just a _little_ too painful right now. Fortunately, the Metro was arriving right then, and once it came to a stop, she gratefully boarded it.

It was a long trip to Dupont Circle, but at least it was all on the red line. She could curl up in her seat and simply wait for the crackle of the speaker and the gruff voice of the operator to announce her stop.

It was a rather unhappy farewell that she paid to her two best friends. Their moving truck was already packed and parked temporarily in one of the expensive neighborhood garages, ready for Max to drive it up to Maine literally as soon as their lunch was over. Their tiny apartment suddenly looked much larger now that it was completely empty.

Max and Pascal were sad about the parting, but they also showed excitement about moving to Maine to be part of the marriage campaign. Rapunzel was just sad. Sad and nervous.

“Are you sure you’re going to be okay?” Pascal asked her softly as he hugged her goodbye.

She nodded mutely and felt herself passed to Max for a harder, more bearish hug. “We’re really worried about you,” he said. “Please keep in touch.”

“I will,” she said around a choked voice. Max released her from the hug and walked towards the moving van. He and Pascal climbed into the cab of the truck. The engine started. As the truck began to slowly edge down the ramp and out of the parking garage, they gave her parting glances. She waited until she could no longer see them before finally leaving.

* * *

Her own move took place the very next Monday. She didn’t have to move just yet; her lease didn’t expire until the fifteenth, but with no friends left in the city and a full afternoon to fill now, she knew that she was going to be lonesome. She was _almost_ relieved when _he_ showed up with a moving van, a smaller one than Pascal and Max had used, to transport her belongings out to Fairfax. Almost.

They sat on the couch—no, _his_ couch—late that night. She was silent, feeling every bit of the anxiety that had been brewing in her ever since she made the call to him. She told herself she shouldn’t be so anxious, because surely this situation was better than being homeless or tagging along with her friends because she was too pathetic to maintain herself like an adult should. She tried to ignore the whisper that she was still dependent, and that to choose dependency on _him_ rather than _them_ was indicative of something other than shame at being unable to support herself. She _could_ have gone to Maine with them… but it would have meant leaving the DC metro area. It would have meant leaving _him._

He, on the other hand, was confident, throwing his heavy, confining arm around her shoulder, drawing her in, smirking as he closed the distance, feeling her flinch at his touch but nonetheless allow it. He had known she would come around. Their fight a couple of weeks ago had opened her eyes, he knew. It was just a matter of time before she faced the truth, he thought smugly.

When their lips touched, for a moment she wanted to draw back, pull away, run from the condo, because she couldn’t do this, she just couldn’t, and he shouldn’t expect it and take it for granted the way he did. But she stayed. She let him part her lips and stroke her cheek and push her down against the seat of the couch to devour her. She focused on the pleasurable sensations and tried not to think about the anxious feelings beating on the doors of her mind. When he finally scooped her up in his arms to carry her back to the bedroom, she threw her own around his neck, clinging to him because she was supposed to and because she was terrified that if she pushed him away, he would go back on his word and tell her to get lost.

He set her down on her back, climbed in after her, and continued where he left off. When at last she lay exposed beneath him, she felt her heart pounding and wanted once again to get out, but once again did not. She _knew_ this would happen the moment she made _that call_ to him. She knew, after that camping trip and that fight, that their relationship had gone to a place from which there was no return, and it would either continue on its inexorable path—or end completely. She knew that after years of being deliberately manipulated into feeling that she _owed_ somebody else love and affection because that person provided for her, she could not possibly avert this even though she also knew that wasn’t what _he_ was doing. He was just acting on his own absolute confidence and assurance, confidence that she had given him no reason to doubt tonight.

He wanted her, so she let him have her. Why not, she thought? She was no good at what she had gone to school to do; her unemployment proved that, she thought. No one in the world of work wanted her, but at least _he_ wanted her. At least he liked her.

_You’re just a freeloading roommate, here because of his pity, if he doesn’t really want you,_ she told herself, _but if he does, you have a certain right to be here._ It was all right for him to prove how much he wanted her, she thought, since nobody else did.

It sure did hurt like hell, in more ways than one… but somehow, after he was finished, she did feel as if she belonged here.

“I promise I’ll take care of you,” he whispered after he rolled off her, giving her a final kiss good night.

_“IT’S NOT YOUR ONLY CHOICE,”_ she thought ironically after she had curled up against him and he had thrown his arm around her, keeping her from rolling away in her sleep. She supposed that _technically_ it was true, but only technically.

* * *

The lock clicked, the door opened, and in he walked. He set down his briefcase and tossed his jacket on a chair before sitting down next to her on the couch.

“How did your day go?” she asked.

“Well, it just got better,” he replied through a smile.

She couldn’t help but smile back as he leaned over to kiss her. There were times when she feared he took her for granted—not because of anything he did, but because of what _she_ did. Because never, _not once_ since she moved in a month ago, had she told him, or even implied to him, that she wasn’t in the mood for making out or lovemaking, and she had a terrible fear gnawing at her that if she ever _did_ tell him that, he would not want her there anymore. She kept trying to tell herself that it was stupid, that he genuinely cared for her and it was unfair to deceive him about her own worries the way she did each and every day, but she still was afraid.

She didn’t have a paying job, and she realized that she wasn’t _going_ to have a paying job. She hadn’t applied for one position since she moved in with him. The first and only time she had mentioned the subject, he had told her that she should do it if she really wanted to, but if she _didn’t_ , then she didn’t need to worry about it.

_Of course not,_ she had thought resentfully. _The only job I’ll ever hold involves a stove and a mattress._ But she didn’t say that, because there was no point in being spiteful. He wasn’t keeping her from working. _She_ was.

Still, _he_ had gone back to outside work. He had finally found a firm on K Street that would employ him. It lobbied for the financial industry, as he had done before, but this one was a law-abiding firm, he had reassured her. He knew that she would worry about him getting caught up in illegal bribes again and being thrown in prison this time.

In the meantime, his twelve-year-old unfinished novel sat parked as a file on his laptop computer. At least he’d gotten his old writing copied off his floppies, but it broke her heart that he was so tied up with this crap, lobbying for people who only cared about money, that he couldn’t spend more than a couple of hours a week on what he _really_ wanted to do. She blamed herself. He must have gone back to that world because he needed a steady income to support _her,_ because a million bucks wasn’t what it used to be (especially in Fairfax County), because he felt obligated to be the provider. There were times, when she tentatively brought up the subject to him, when he said that the real reason he didn’t work much on it was because deep down he didn’t think he could actually publish it, and even if he did, that it wouldn’t sell. She didn’t believe that. It _had_ to be her.

* * *

She smoothed out her black cocktail dress and fumbled with the diamond pendant around her neck, bringing the tiny clasp to the back of her neck where it belonged. When at last she had it fixed, she glanced over to the corner where he stood, suited up in black, smiling admiringly at her. He held out his arm, she took it, and together they walked into the hotel ballroom where so many other “important” DC figures were seated at the tables for dinner. They had seats at one of them. Little cards with their own names.

He didn’t _need_ a date for these events, but when she insisted that she wanted to go, he couldn’t very well tell her to stay home. Of course, he didn’t know why she was _really_ there.

She had been legitimately happy when he offered her the diamond solitaire that now sparkled on her left hand and the promise that went with it. At that one shining moment, she had been confident that this would be it—this would be the change that did away with all her fears about being abandoned. This would free her to stop looking at physical affection and sex as a currency that paid for her room and board. This would be what annihilated her secret, shameful, misery-inducing distrust of him—a distrust that she knew in her most self-aware moments that she had cultivated herself by viewing this relationship the way she did, but that was nonetheless there.

It hadn’t. If anything, it had only made it worse, by ramping up the potential for heartbreak if he ever found out her secret thoughts. Of course he would feel betrayed if he knew what she had really been thinking all summer. Who wouldn’t?

And besides, once he popped the question, it wasn’t as if she could actually refuse. Not if she wanted to keep him. Which she did.

He didn’t _need_ a date for these events. It wasn’t required. But several of his colleagues had dates… sort of. _Hired_ dates. And she would be damned if she let him get out of her sight at any event where that was happening.

She clutched his arm tighter as she passed by two such pairs. “Escorts,” indeed, she thought disdainfully—but immediately, the feeling of screaming hypocrisy flooded her. First cast out the beam from thine own eye….

* * *

He got into bed, carefully climbing over her, mindful of her burgeoning belly. She breathed heavily as he flopped down on the pillow. He rolled on his side to face her.

_Who am I?_ she thought miserably. _What is wrong with me?_ She tried to understand, to make sense out of the past eight months, but she didn’t even know where to begin untangling the threads. She curled up into herself, unable to meet his eye.

Out of the darkness, he finally spoke. “Rapunzel, this is breaking my heart.”

She froze. A shiver rippled down her back. This was it; she was about to watch her fear come true, just as she had dreaded.

“I don’t know what to do anymore,” he said in a husky voice. “I thought… that things would change after we got married… and I don’t understand. I’ve done everything I know… but it still hasn’t convinced you. What more will it take?” She couldn’t look up, but she heard the pain that radiated from his words.

He knew. He probably knew all along. How long had he been suffering under that knowledge?

“Please,” he gasped, running a shaking hand down her back. “For her, if nothing else. We have to fix it before she’s born. I don’t want our child to grow up with a messed up home life just like…. “ He trailed off, the rest of the statement unspoken but nonetheless obvious.

She still couldn’t move, not even to curl against him.

_“Please,_ talk to me, damn it!” he cried, shaking her shoulders. “I want to fix it, but you have to talk to me.”

She finally gazed up at him. He had not been exaggerating about heartbreak. His eyes were moist and red, and his face was twisted with pain. She wanted to tell him, but she didn’t even know where to start.

“Rapunzel, I love you so much,” he began.

“I love you too,” she said quickly.

He looked pained. “I know you do… but it’s not enough. You don’t trust me, and you never have. That hurts, Rapunzel. Please tell me why, so we can make it right.”

She couldn’t pull away from his gaze, those pleading, desperate eyes. She knew he was telling the truth. He had never seen their relationship as a transaction. That was just her twisted interpretation, because she was too afraid to give him her trust, and deep down she knew it all along.

He knew what she had been doing. He understood her better than she understood herself. Of course he did. He knew _all about_ quid pro quo transactions.

She couldn’t stand it any longer. Bursting into tears, she threw herself at him, burying her face against his shoulder. “Flynn,” she whispered. She shook as he enveloped her in his arms. “I’m _so sorry,”_ she sobbed into his neck.

The fragile wall he had watched her build up inside herself had finally crashed down in ruins. He knew that had to hurt, and the vulnerability she was feeling had to be frightening, but he also knew that these things needed to happen, and _he_ had to prove to her that he would not take advantage of this vulnerability. So he held her until her tears finally subsided, asking her no more questions that night.


	24. The House Always Wins (AU Background)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is basically "betagyre throws everyone she can into one room." It includes two characters from a 90s movie I've written a few fics for, along with Tony Stark. It is AU because I imagined _Bad Influence_ occurring in the real world, with real-world political figures in charge, and this obviously does not; because I referenced _House of Cards_ as a TV show in a previous bonus scene ("Testimony"), while in this, Underwood is an actual character; and because it makes heavy AU adjustments of Marvelverse (Tony is just Tony, not a super hero) and _American President_ (this isn't the 1990s).
> 
> Also, Happy Holidays.

Flynn did not want to be here.

Even with his pretty vivacious wife nearby, even with her distinguished grandfather as the de facto head of their small party, even though the ballroom was filled with political luminaries including the First Couple themselves, their hosts—Flynn did not want to be at this function.

His reputation had basically recovered in the court of public opinion, but among this set, there was still a substantial amount of distrust and dislike for him. It was a distrust that, apparently, was not done away with even though Flynn’s ticket to this party _was_ such an esteemed ex-senator as Mr. King. This President was _such_ a goody-two-shoes, it was almost infuriating. He was even more of one than King himself, though the old campaigner had actually made corruption his pet issue while in office. Flynn was an interloper here, a black sheep from both a partisan and a history-of-integrity perspective, and he knew it.

_It’s all that crap that the bloggers said,_ he thought sourly, recalling the ugly commentary about his motives—this time loaded with a decidedly nasty personal attack, due to his marriage and their baby—that had made the rounds of the Internet over the previous summer, when the ex-Congressmen were on trial. He had managed to get _one_ blogger to shut up, but silencing all the stupid talk was a game of whack-a-mole, and he wasn’t going to play it. Flynn found it appalling that such elite personages as the invitees to the White House Christmas party would give a damn what conspiracy theorists and torch-and-pitchfork ideologues had to say about _anything,_ but—

_“The world has changed,”_ he thought, recalling the opening line of one of Rapunzel’s favorite movies.

The image of rabid keyboard warriors as Ringwraiths and orcs mollified Flynn for a moment, providing a flicker of amusement. He smiled at the thought and glanced around at the other members of his party.

The Kings were together, as they usually were, conversing cheerily with a current member of the Senate, whom he knew to be strongly in support of strict regulations on Wall Street. Flynn instantly decided to avoid that conversation. There was no good place it could go to, considering the nature of the lobbying from his previous life. He looked about for his wife and located her quickly.

Rapunzel was talking animatedly with a handsome— _alarmingly_ handsome, he thought with some discomfiture—man that he knew to be a weaponmaker-turned-green-energy-leader. _Probably here at the First Lady’s request,_ Flynn thought. Mrs. Shepherd’s Green Fuel for Blue Skies Initiative was the talk of the town, and she had actually managed to bring activists and business leaders together for the cause of climate change mitigation. Elsa Rendell wanted an in with it; she seemed convinced that she had met the woman once, before she married the President. Though Elsa’s sister Anna doubted that, Flynn didn’t. This town was a very small world for people working on the same topic, and the odds of two climate lobbyists running into each other were good.

Still, this guy—what was his name? Stark, Flynn remembered—didn’t need to be talking to Rapunzel that… _interestedly._ Didn’t he have a girlfriend? Where was she? And why wasn’t he looking steadily at Rapunzel’s _face_ as they chatted? His eyes kept darting downward, and the neckline on her dress was fairly low.

Rapunzel let out a delighted laugh at something Stark said. She raised her glass of champagne to his and toasted with him, grinning.

And winking.

That did it. Flynn did not for a second suspect her of deliberate flirting, but Rapunzel still sometimes did things without realizing how they looked to other people. Her upbringing of isolation would probably shape her behavior for the rest of her life. But that only made it _less_ acceptable for people to take advantage of it. Flynn made to walk toward the pair.

“Ah, there you are!” came a voice, interrupting Flynn’s course. “I had heard that you were here, and I’ve been determined to have a word with you.”

Flynn stopped and turned to face the person, irritation still evident in his face. “Are you sure you wanted to see _me?”_ he asked.

“Certainly.” The clean-shaven, older-middle-aged man attempted to smile, but it came out as a rather sinister-looking leer. “Frank Underwood. Majority Whip.” He held out his hand, still leering.

Flynn took the hand and shook it quickly. “Flynn Rider—but I suppose you know that. What could the Majority Whip possibly have to say to me?” He gave a forced chuckle. “I’m not engaged in brokering illegal bargains anymore, you know, so if you suspect some of your caucus of being in with that—”

Underwood started to roll his eyes but quickly chuckled too instead. “This has nothing to do with _that._ It actually concerns _you_ yourself.”

Flynn gave a despairing glance in the direction of Rapunzel and Stark, who were moving away. It seemed that he had to hear out this man in this conversation first, though.

“I understand that you have started a new firm, an issue-based firm that courts philanthropists, foundations, and the like for funds.”

“I have.”

“I’m sorry to hear that you have settled for money,” the Majority Whip oozed. “Choosing money over power is the biggest mistake that people in this town make.”

Flynn stared at the man, visibly offended. _“If_ I had any aspiration to elected office, I am realistic enough to know that it isn’t going to happen now.”

Underwood sipped his wine and shook his head lightly. “It could if you wanted to. You are a talented fellow, and you’ve talked the talk that people want to hear. That’s all that really matters, the ability to make people believe what you want them to. They can be persuaded to put aside anything. If you were to switch your party affiliation, I could help you advance. Much better than grandpa could.” He smiled that leer again. “I think you and I would work very well together.”

Flynn was not personally acquainted with this man, but he knew quite well that Underwood’s “allies” were more properly his feudal vassals and blackmail hostages, and he had _no_ intention of becoming either. “Thank you, but I do not need any of your ‘help,’” he said, trying hard to keep snideness out of his voice but not entirely succeeding. “It’s not a matter of settling for anything. I have no interest in running for office and never have… and if you think what I do _now_ is lucrative, you’re very mistaken. Lobbying _is_ power.”

Underwood smirked. “Political office holds greater power. I am trying to recruit for the next cycle, and if _you_ insist on this negative, well… there’s a lovely lady in the building you work in now.” That unpleasant leer was visible on his face despite his expert attempts to conceal it. “Blonde, young, no _unfortunate_ past political affiliations… _she_ would be a telegenic face, should she be willing to play.” The façade of politeness was clearly down.

Flynn did not like this man’s implications one bit. “Elsa Rendell is one of the most rigidly principled people I have ever known,” he said sharply. The meaning was unmistakable, and Flynn did not care what Underwood thought.

He definitely did not miss the point. “Is she? Well, good luck to her with that.” The sneer in his words could not be concealed either.

* * *

The conversation did not go unnoticed. Elsewhere in the room, the hosts were observing their guests, keeping a particular eye on the untrustworthy Majority Whip—he _had_ to be invited, the President thought grumpily, even though he _really_ did not want the viper here—when suddenly, the elder politician snagged a younger man seemingly out of thin air. Quickly the First Couple identified the younger person.

“Remind me why we invited _him?”_ the President growled.

“It would have been a snub not to, since he married into Senator King’s family and lives here, while _they_ had to fly in from Colorado. And he’s reformed.”

“Supposedly.”

His wife frowned. “Surely you don’t give any credence to that garbage that was online last year. I doubt it is any more truthful for _him_ than such crap was for _us.”_

“Oh, no, it isn’t that at all. Just… excuse me if I find it suspicious for a corrupt Republican lobbyist who bargained his way out of prison to be conspiring with the biggest snake in Washington.”

“You don’t know that they’re _conspiring,”_ Sydney pointed out. “Underwood might have forced himself upon him. He does that.” She scowled. “He really needs to go, or he’s going to be a liability for the party at some point.”

“Well, unless he can be removed by his own constituents, I think he needs to stay exactly where he is,” President Shepherd replied. “If he is maneuvered out of the leadership post, that’ll just make him vindictive.”

“He won’t be pacified with it indefinitely.”

“Then let him run next election. He won’t get nominated. I can make sure of that. There are stories…” He lowered his voice. “Adultery stories. They could be leaked without my fingerprints on it.”

“You’d support using his personal life to take him down? _You?”_

“I would,” he said grimly. “It’s nothing like what was done to us. We were single. We weren’t doing anything wrong. And if it didn’t come out in the primary and he did get nominated, it’d definitely come out after that.”

She considered this. “Fair enough, then. But be careful that it _isn’t_ traceable to you. He’s a nasty piece of work.”

He smiled darkly. “I know what he is probably better than you do, love.”

* * *

The meeting with Underwood had agitated and distracted Flynn. How _dare_ that man assume that he would take _him_ up on an offer of patronage, as if _of course_ Flynn’s own sense of decency was still so crippled that an alliance with a corrupt, utterly self-serving, possibly criminal politician (if the whispers were accurate) would not offend his morals. Yes, he had done exactly that before—if not for the purpose of running for office himself—but he had publicly and repeatedly renounced that past! The sheer _presumption_ of the offer, let alone the smugly (and _approvingly)_ “knowing” insinuations about deceit in Flynn’s rehabilitation, infuriated him.

He was stewing in his own anger so deeply that he had almost forgotten the reason he had bumped into Underwood in the first place. The irritation associated with it was certainly forgotten; the flirtations of Stark were unimportant in perspective. They were probably harmless in intent anyway. _And really,_ he thought, _Rapunzel ought to be able to tell when someone is flirting with her by this time. Maybe she’s had too much to drink tonight._ His wife had, during the brief month of unemployment and depression before they got together, turned to the bottle a great deal, and it had increased her tolerance during that period. But since then, she had reverted back to what she naturally was: a lightweight who quickly became very happy, chatty, even silly.

“Flynn!” her voice exclaimed from close by. He looked around until his gaze landed upon her. Yes, she was definitely on the tipsy side at the moment.

“Hello, Rapunzel,” he said. “I trust you’ve been enjoying yourself.”

She beamed. “It’s great, and such an honor! I didn’t realize Grandpa was friends with _them._ They’re so much younger than my grandparents. But I found out that they worked together on corruption—”

“Rapunzel, please lower your voice,” he urged. Lord, she got loud when she was tipsy.

She did so. “Anyway, they were both after corrupt members of the House and Senate—and the Crown Group.”

Flynn did not generally mind talking about his past, but considering what his thoughts had been right before Rapunzel showed up, it was one of the last things he wanted to think about at the moment. “Rapunzel, I really don’t want to hear this right now,” he grunted.

She stopped abruptly, looking hurt.

“Have you talked with the First Lady?” he asked quickly.

“No, I haven’t met either of them personally.”

“Well, why don’t you get introduced and share your experiences about being a new mother,” he suggested.

Rapunzel was clearly confused. “But our experiences were completely different!”

“I am _pretty_ sure that your experiences in _general_ are completely different from every other person in this room.” It was a low blow, and he felt a prickle of guilt as soon as he said it.

“Are you trying to get rid of me?” she cried. “If you don’t want to talk to me, why don’t _you_ go talk to her about being a lobbyist?”

_“Our_ experiences in _that_ were completely different,” he shot back. “She was more like Elsa than me. I wish your grandpa had gotten an invitation for Elsa, actually.”

Rapunzel’s face flushed with anger just as Flynn realized how that sounded—that he was thinking of another woman and maybe even preferred her company, since he had told Rapunzel to shove off. He opened his mouth to apologize and explain about the conversation with Underwood, and why Elsa had been on his mind in the first place, but she hissed her retort before he could.

“He has never even met Elsa, and that would have been a terrible affront to Max and the other staff.” She glared at him and stalked away to her grandparents.

Flynn’s irritation flooded back. Yes, he had been rude to her, but she didn’t even give him the chance to apologize before storming off. _Curse this party,_ he thought. _I should have simply refused to come, even if everyone else in the family went. People would talk, but there are far more interesting items of gossip in this town than my social life._ He looked around the room for someone to talk to, finally fixing upon Stark, who was now properly beside his girlfriend. Stark might be an annoying narcissist, but Flynn couldn’t really say much less of himself, in full honesty. And what he was _not_ was a politician. He was practical, a businessman and inventor.

The conversation was pleasant. Flynn’s personal interests, as well as the objective of his new firm, centered around arts-related gifted education rather than science and technology, _but there’s nothing wrong with branching out a bit,_ he thought as he talked with the industrialist. Stark was _very_ interested in it. They agreed to talk more about working together in the future. The conversation seemed to be winding down, and Flynn was feeling a bit better about this whole event, when Stark abruptly changed the subject.

“I’ve got to ask, why on earth is the President staring daggers at you?” he asked jestingly.

Flynn whipped his head around. Sure enough, the President was fixed upon him. Flynn scowled. “I’m assuming it’s that he only invited me because I’m related by marriage to one of his friends, and he didn’t expect or want me to actually show.”

Stark frowned. “There are others here that I _know_ he’s not friendly with.”

“Well, I haven’t even spoken to him, or _about_ him for that matter. I’ve never met him, so whatever his problem is with me, it is not something I said.” He feigned unconcern. “Maybe he thinks I taint his wife by association. The same profession and all, but _my_ reputation is… well.”

Stark chuckled with Flynn. As he moved away, leaving Flynn again by himself, he considered what he had just said. The remark was made as a joke, but as he thought more about it, it occurred to him that it might actually be correct. The First Lady _was_ an ex-lobbyist herself, and the presence of one with _his_ notoriety might bring unpleasant associations about the entire line of work.

The conference with Underwood came back to his mind. The Majority Whip, a political ally of the White House, had simply _assumed_ that his reformation was a fraud. _A political ally of the White House,_ he repeated in thought, rolling the phrase around in his mind. _Corrupt as hell, but an ally. Yet I am persona non grata, singled out so strongly that other people notice it. Hypocrites. Hypocrites, every last one of them._

This theory, which—once formed—Flynn did not doubt for a moment, set his blood boiling. _I’ll give him something to glare about,_ he thought spitefully as a plan formed in his mind. Without considering the matter any further, without considering whether there might be other explanations for the President’s seeming dislike of him, Flynn scanned the room until he located the First Lady. She was talking with a middle-aged couple who, based on the woman’s clothing and jewelry, appeared to be _very_ rich and _very_ bored. Flynn promptly made a beeline for this group.

* * *

Flynn knew he had a winning smile, a smile that could melt hearts and open wallets. It didn’t always work on Rapunzel, of course, but that was because she knew him too well. He questioned how well it would work on a woman who, prior to her marriage, had been a lobbyist—a notoriously hard-nosed one—for several more years than he had and probably was very familiar with all the tricks of the trade.

Maybe it was the season. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was her general contentment and happiness with her life. And maybe she was pleased to be the object of attention of a handsome young man under 30. That was Flynn’s hope and intention. Even when people were happily partnered off, many times their vanity was nonetheless flattered when someone much younger than their spouse paid attention to them. But whatever it was—or whatever combination, more likely—Mrs. Shepherd, to her surprise, was enjoying the conversation with Flynn a great deal.

That surprised her. She had not thought _that_ ill of him; she had not believed a word of the rubbish said of him last year in the blogs. But the ugly incident with his former firm and that Wall Street firm had really cast a pall over the whole profession, and it had been used against her—and the President—early in their relationship, when the opposition had been trying to take him down in an election year. It hadn’t been Rider’s fault that the oppo had been trying to use “Crowngate”—a case indicting lobbyists who, ironically, were mostly aligned with _them_ —to slime everyone in the profession simply because it was convenient for their electoral goals at the time. But it had made her a little wary of him.

In all honesty, she was still wary of him. Getting to know her, making nice with one of his hosts and a friend of his grandfather-in-law, was one thing, but he seemed a little _too_ charming in this conversation. He seemed— _flirty._ And she couldn’t figure out what he meant by it. He was a married man, a happily married one by all accounts (including Mr. King’s), and even if he hadn’t been, she was definitely so. What did he intend?

_Maybe he doesn’t intend anything,_ she thought, as she discoursed with him about education policy. That was what he did now, and that was what she had done before switching to energy and climate policy. _Maybe he too has had some wine and is enjoying himself._

He had just escorted her, by the arm, over to the nearest serving-tray when she pulled away. Something had caught her eye.

“Excuse me,” she said, her tone suddenly frosty. “I need to speak to my husband. I believe he wants me for something.” She quickly hurried off.

Flynn followed the back of her head as she scouted out the President. It was not difficult to find him.

* * *

Rapunzel had been talking with her grandparents and attempting to put Flynn’s unpleasant mood out of her mind. He had hurt her feelings a great deal by cutting her off, trying to send her away, and saying that he wished another woman—her _friend—_ had been present. She did not suspect him of anything concerning Elsa, but it did bother her a little. At work, he would see Elsa whenever they chanced to meet in the building lobby or the elevator. They had their profession in common, too. Rapunzel knew them both well enough to know that they wouldn’t betray her, but the idea of him forming a strong friendship with Elsa—a friendship based on aspects of his life and personality that, truth be told, he really did not have in common with Rapunzel—made her vaguely sad. She wanted to share _everything_ with him. When he had been strictly a writer, it had seemed that this might be possible, as she too loved the arts. But the other passion of his was not killed by a bad experience; it was merely dormant, and it could easily grow once more in soil that wasn’t poisoned.

_It isn’t realistic that two people will share every interest with equal fervor,_ she thought. She supposed it was possible that one day she might grow into an interest in politics to equal his, but that day was beyond her imagination right now. Talking with her grandparents certainly had not kindled such an interest to that degree.

While she was in the middle of a lighthearted discussion about the architecture and furnishings of the White House, her grandmother suddenly blanched at something she saw that was behind Rapunzel. Rapunzel did not fail to notice.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, turning around to see what had so discomfited her grandparent. What she saw made her face fall.

Next to a serving-tray of some type of party food, Flynn was standing with the First Lady, clearly laying on the charm. Rapunzel gazed at the scene in humiliation. Her husband had deserted her out of apparent boredom and was chatting up a married woman almost twenty years older than herself, in full view of many Washington luminaries. She was so mortified, she wished for a trapdoor to open up and swallow her.

* * *

Flynn was unsure who was looking at him more murderously, Rapunzel or the President. –No, he quickly decided that the President’s glare would have dropped him dead right there if looks could kill. Rapunzel looked upset and embarrassed as well as furious.

All other thoughts fled his mind. _What have I allowed to happen?_ he thought miserably. _Why did I let all these people get to me instead of sticking with Rapunzel and the Kings? Why did I act on the irritation like this?_

Flynn knew—he _knew—_ that the decisions he made in the heat of anger rarely turned out well. Hotheadedness in a fight had almost cost him Rapunzel back in their early days. Joining the Crown Group had itself been a reactive act to being scorned by a woman from college. Going to New York and confronting the thuggish traders, on their own “territory,” by himself had almost cost him his _life._ He knew this. Why did he allow his very reason to fall prey to anger?

There was but one thing to be done. He had to get to Rapunzel and her grandparents and explain himself. They would probably need to leave the party. He just hoped that this fiasco hadn’t cost Mr. King the regard of a friend.

* * *

It all came out: the general sense of unwelcome that Flynn had felt from the start, the spark of jealousy kindled by seeing Stark flirt with Rapunzel (Rapunzel herself blushed; as Flynn had first suspected, she had _not_ known that the man was doing it), the offer from Underwood and the insulting implications thereof, the assumption that the President was glaring at him because of his history and profession, and the outrage he felt (spoken in a low tone that no one else could hear) about how the President could have a problem with _him_ but be allied with a snake like Underwood.

“Flynn,” Mr. King said in clear tones of exasperation. “They are _not_ allies in any sense but that of necessity, and they certainly aren’t _friends._ He knows perfectly well what Underwood is. Didn’t you know, the President and I first targeted _him_ when we were trying to root out corruption on the Hill?”

That _was_ news. “I did not.”

“I did,” Rapunzel said. “I tried to tell you about it.” She gave him a pointed look. He gazed back apologetically.

“Well, nothing ever came of it. He covered his tracks well. But he also never found out about it. Anyway, he’s definitely not a chum of the President. _That_ is probably why he was glaring at you, the fact that he saw Underwood and you talking and assumed the worst. And then when you followed it up by talking to Stark, who _is_ an ally of theirs….”

“This is absurd,” Mrs. King exclaimed. “It has clearly been a night of misunderstandings. We should go to them and explain what was really going on.”

Everyone agreed on this course of action, and the group shuffled over to where the President and First Lady appeared to be in the middle of a dispute themselves. Flynn felt a prickle of guilt. He was certain that they were arguing about _him._

They broke apart and put on their best faces for the approaching group. Interest seemed palpable on both of their faces at the recognition of _who_ was coming.

“Mr. President, sir,” Mr. King broke the ice, “I think there have been several misunderstandings between you, your wife, and members of my party here, and I hoped we might all set the record straight amongst ourselves instead of ending the night with ill feeling. My grandson-in-law was really upset over what _he_ perceived to be disapproval of his very presence here.”

The First Couple raised their eyebrows.

“As it turns out, it was all the doing of a certain weasel in the House that we all know.”

Recognition spread over both their faces.

Flynn spoke up. “When he was talking to me, sir, it was to offer me his patronage if I wanted to run for office. There were several sly remarks made to the effect that he and I would be well-suited for each other. I was offended by that assumption, so I refused.”

Relief filled the President’s face. “In that case, I apologize for misapprehending you. You are correct that I thought that conversation took, let’s say, a different route.”

“Actually, I think I’m the one who owes an apology for being overly familiar with your wife.” He gazed up sheepishly. “And I owe another to _my_ wife—for the whole evening, really.”

Rapunzel squeezed his hand in acknowledgment.

“Apology accepted,” Mrs. Shepherd said, “though I wasn’t bothered. I enjoyed talking with you.”

Flynn smiled, a real smile rather than a purposely flirty one. That settled things. The conversation began to flow freely as the chief executive and his old ally caught up and shared stories, and the rest discussed the state of the policy world. They were interrupted several times by other people who wanted to talk with their important host and hostess, but otherwise, the King party stayed near the First Couple for the rest of the evening. Rapunzel _did_ mention new parenthood to the First Lady, and a one-on-one conversation got started that all the men immediately backed away from.

“It really sounds as if your labor was worse,” Rapunzel said.

“But I never had any _doubts._ I think you—I cannot imagine—a premature baby. _That_ man”—she jerked her thumb back toward her husband—“insisted on having me pampered and petted throughout it because I was 40, but there was no real concern about it after a certain point.”

“It’s what they do,” Rapunzel said, laughing.

At last it seemed that the party was breaking up and guests were leaving. The King party indicated for their coats to be brought to them and prepared to take their leave.

“Oh, before we go, there is one last thing,” Flynn said, remembering the substance of the conversation that nearly spoiled their evening. “There is a woman who works in my building… she is friends with my wife and me… name of Elsa Rendell.” He glanced at Mrs. Shepherd for signs of recognition, but there were none. _Maybe Anna is right,_ he thought grimly, but plunged on. “She thinks she met you once, in a downtown bar one night the winter before last.”

The redhaired woman exchanged an embarrassed glance with her husband and considered. “That was when we had a—misunderstanding—and I recall now, I did meet a young woman. Platinum blonde hair… she said she was also in environmentalism and disliked her employer. No, wait, she had been dismissed by her employer that day.”

“It does sound like her,” Flynn agreed.

“The Progressive Center for Environmental Justice—that was the name of the firm,” Rapunzel added. “She has been a solo climate change consultant ever since then.”

“Oh, yes, it definitely sounds like the same person. She’s well rid of those people. It’s a dead-end firm. They are not interested in doing anything that could actually, realistically, be accomplished.”

“Well, I am afraid I have to tell you, Underwood may be interested in recruiting her—I _think_ he meant as a candidate, but who can say with him when it concerns ambitious young people. My wife and I will warn her about him if she doesn’t already know what he is—”

The President and First Lady were looking stony-faced.

“—but I also wanted to tell you—”

“She’s really interested in your initiative!” Rapunzel broke in. Flynn gazed at her, smiling. It was vastly preferable for the message to come from _her,_ the charming granddaughter of one of the man’s old friends and allies, rather than from _him._

“Is she?” Mrs. Shepherd said with interest. “What did she think of doing?”

“I’m not sure of the precise details, but you know she has a degree in the science itself too and she’s really interested in the Arctic situation and winter storm preparation for cities. She says they’re going to get worse.”

“They likely are,” Mrs. Shepherd said grimly. “Well, the initiative has many—”

“Tentacles,” the President supplied with a smirk.

She swatted at him playfully. “Right. There are many areas of policy that relate to the topic, and it is very possible that there would be a place for her. I assume she would prefer to remain a private consultant.”

“As far as I know,” said Rapunzel.

“That’s all right. Most of the people involved are. Well, I will certainly look her up and talk with her about it. Thanks for the recommendation.”

“You’re quite welcome. We support the goal of the Initiative.”

* * *

As their driver brought them home—or, in the case of the Kings, to the hotel suite in Fairfax close to Flynn and Rapunzel’s condo that they had booked—they all lapsed into a pleasant, contemplative silence. It was broken at last by Rapunzel.

“I am glad we were invited to that,” she said. “I wasn’t sure at first—I was intimidated by the idea, and then the evening started off so unpleasant, but I’m really glad we went. The city was lovely too. I love how it looks this time of year.”

Mrs. King smiled indulgently. “So do I.”

The car stopped at the condo. “I guess I’ll see you—whenever,” Rapunzel laughed, hugging her grandparents in turn. “Hopefully more than just on Christmas.”

“We’re staying until New Year, you know,” Mrs. King said. “You’ll definitely see us more.”

“Great!” she said, beaming, as she got her things out of the car. “See you later, then! Good night!”

“Good night.”


End file.
